


Forgery

by peacehopeandrats



Series: Once Upon a Crime [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2020-01-04 06:55:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18338459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacehopeandrats/pseuds/peacehopeandrats
Summary: Quick SummaryThis series is going to cover Season 7 as various characters wake up. Since it focuses on the crimes rather than the episodes, you won't get an entire episode's telling in one work.TimingWe are starting out in the past, but will end up with everything from where we stopped in the Eloise Gardner episode up to Belfry's arrest.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILER! 
> 
> Skip this and come back if you don't want a new character reveal.  
> First off, I have been asked why I made Dory a blond. That's a nod to Ellen, who plays her. It has nothing to do with dumb blond stuff, so please don't spam me with those comments. Ellen has blond hair. That's all.
> 
> Obligatory "posting fanfiction makes me uncomfortable" remarks  
> I was madly in love with Season 7, but because it was so rushed, we missed huge chunks of people's lives that should have been told.  
> I hate missing important chucks that should be told.  
> Question no longer.  
> While I prefer not to write what has already filmed, there will probably be scenes included here for the sake of proper storytelling.  
> Feel free to leave comments and check out my other work. I answer everything.  
> I am also getting closer to connecting this series with Growing Up.  
> Hang in there.

Facilier hovered in the shadows, watching students scurry about between campus buildings like the overzealous clouds of gnats that swarmed over the bayou back home. He longed to get out of this pit and back to a land where he didn't have to spend weeks at a time collecting items discarded by murderers, betrayers, and thieves, playing the vulture, circling above the monotony until he spotted something rotten, then scavenging for dribbles of magic. 

Across the courtyard, Nick Branson exited a building, looked skyward and ran a hand through his hair as he let out a long breath of relief. Facilier chuckled at the man's relief, speaking to him in a whisper that the struggling student would never hear. “Don't worry, dear boy, you may think you failed, but your Uncle Samdi will make everything right as rain...” He watched Nick look at his wrist, eyes flying wide as he bolted in the direction of another building, late for whatever was next on his schedule.

In his coat pocket, Facilier wrapped his hand tightly around a tiny bottle filled with bits of debris; souvenirs from items that had come into contact with the darkest of emotions. All he had to do now was keep it safe, keep out of everyone's way, and be certain he kept up with the exams that would soon be making their way to some office for grading. 

He strode to the building, careful not to draw attention to himself, though it was difficult to stand out in a crowd of this size, each member with their own level of determination pushing them to their next destination. Someone opened the door ahead of him and he slipped into the main corridor, following the path to the classroom Nick had just vacated. Facilier knew the way well, but walked past the door a few paces, then turned and passed it again, plastering a look of deep confusion on his face.

“Can I help you?” The voice came from a man standing not one foot from the stack of tests which were his true target.

Facilier put on his most charming smile and entered, hesitating in the doorway and peering around in a way that would most certainly express his hope to not be a disruption to anyone. It was a ruse, of course. All he really needed to know was if they were alone, which they were. He had counted on Nick being the last to complete the exam. The poor fool was cursed to be lazy, too flighty and irresponsible to truly accomplish anything, which was why he needed the help of some powerful magic.

“Sorry,” Samdi said in a warm tone. “I seem to be lost. I'm supposed to be meeting someone in room 128, but I can't seem to find it.”

The man at the desk frowned. “Rooms in this building only go up to 120. Are you certain that was the number you were given?”

“Gravley 128 is what I was told,” Samdi explained hopelessly as he pretended to search though his pockets for a paper that didn't exist. “I'm afraid I don't know any more than that. I had directions written down somewhere, but I seem to have lost them.”

“Ah,” said the person at the desk. “This is Brauer. Gravley is across the courtyard. Big brick building. You can't miss it.”

Facilier gave a relieved smile. Palming the tiny vial, he lifted his hand to his chest and let out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “And here I was beginning to think the room had just vanished to another realm! I thought I was going mad.” He chuckled at his own apparent ineptitude and reached out to shake the man's hand, murmuring his thanks as he let the glass drop to the floor and shatter at his feet.

The professor's eyes widened at the sound it made and glanced down at the desk, surveying its contents as if judging the extent of the damage to some item that was lost off the map of the surface that he obviously held in his mind. “What-”

“Oh, my key chain,” exclaimed Facilier as he bent down to sweep up the debris, deliberately rubbing his hand in the dust it had created. “It must have fallen out of my pocket.” He felt the tingle of magical power and sighed at the familiarity of it, though he made it seem as if the sigh were one of sadness. “Just a trinket,” he said. “Nothing of real value. I'm so sorry to have made a mess though.”

“No harm done,” said the other man as he glanced down. “I'll let the janitor know.”

Facilier stood, deliberately placing his hand on the stack of exam papers, and willed the marks on the uppermost pages to shift, his minuscule dribble of magic forcing the lines to form only the correct answers, as well as Nick's name. Before the professor had noticed, his palm lifted from the desk, his task complete.

“Thank you again,” Samdi said as he began to walk away. “I'm sorry to have caused a disturbance...” He walked to the doorway and glanced down the hall, then pointed. “This way? The big building across the courtyard.”

The man nodded. 

Samdi waved his thanks and moved on, striding with confidence out of the building and into the courtyard. Ignoring the directions he never needed, he headed to his car and prepared to leave campus. Only the bar exam and a proper recommendation would prevent Nick Branson from becoming a lawyer now and once that was done, the man could be set on the path he was most useful for. Though he utterly lacked the motivation to do schoolwork, in a few short months, Nick was going to put every ounce of concentration he had into getting Facilier out of this realm, he just didn't know it yet.

* *

“Where the hell is it?” Regina kicked at a random box in the storage room, putting all of the day's emotions into the one action. She swore and immediately leaned against the nearest object that would hold her, lifting up her foot and massaging the toe of her shoe to try and ease the pain of her thoughtless action. As the discomfort eased, she took a long breath, closed her eyes, and thought about Emma.

Happy, pregnant Emma... who wasn't pregnant yet, actually... How Regina wished she could pick up a phone, call her over for drinks, and talk about Henry's situation together. There was a part of her past when she had been perfectly happy to fight on her own, to throw fireballs and spew out all manner of insults and spells to fight for her revenge, but after Henry brought Emma to Storybrooke that had slowly changed. She had gotten used to Snow and Charming standing at her side and Emma's magic mingling with her own as they fought the monster of the day. She _could_ do this alone, but with no one at her side, she felt deflated and helpless, even when she knew she wasn't. She needed someone to bounce ideas off of, to help her come up with a plan to save Henry. 

How had Emma lived with herself when she had turned Violet against him? The pain that had settled in Regina's chest now that she had encouraged Jacinda to back down on their relationship was worse to live with than any other she had ever experienced. She knew that truthfully the curse wasn't her fault, she had been forced to cast it to save Henry, and yet there was a part of her that held that blame deep in its core. She could feel it festering inside of her like a rotten apple in a barrel. 

_Emma would have accepted what had to be done and moved on to find a way out of this,_ she reminded herself. _And I would have too._ Regina sat straighter with determination and lowered her foot, shifting her weight and making the picture in her pocket crinkle. She winced at the sound and quickly pulled it out to check that it hadn't been damaged. She really needed to find a better way to carry it around, she realized. She had only just looked at it fifteen minutes ago, upstairs. Her eyes swelled with tears as she gazed down at Henry's small, smiling face. She would give anything to jump through the paper, scoop him up into her arms, and protect him from the world he would eventually come to live in.

“That your kid?” A woman's chipper voice asked from behind, making Regina jump out of her skin.

“Dory!” Regina put a hand to her chest and took a moment to calm herself. “What are you doing down here?”

The blonde suddenly froze, her eyes darting around from one crate to another. “Hm... Now, I know I came down here for something...” She tapped her chin thoughtfully and mumbled encouragements to herself as she tried to come up with her purpose.

Regina couldn't help smiling. Dory was a wonderful worker and always so cheerful, but she was also absent minded to the extreme. Thankfully she knew the woman wouldn't remember the picture of Henry once she went back upstairs. 

“Hey. Was that your kid?” Dory looked at the picture in Regina's hand again and her smile grew. “I'm great with kids. At least... I think I'm great with kids. I mean, I like them and all...”

Putting a hand on the other woman's shoulder, Regina shifted a little until their eyes met. “Dory, focus on what you were trying to get.” She spoke the words slowly, but with kindness.

Dory wouldn't give up on the talk of children, however. “I mean, he must have been yours, right? You wouldn't keep a picture of a random kid in your pocket. That would be silly...”

Regina sighed and closed her eyes. “Yes,” she admitted finally, knowing that she really wouldn't regret confessing anything to this woman, since no one believed much of what she said anyway and Dory herself wouldn't properly remember the conversation. “He is.”

“Kids are great,” Dory replied, then looked around the room again. “Where is he?”

“Oh,” Regina exhaled more than spoke the word. “All grown up.” She looked down at the picture one more time before tucking it away again and wiping her eyes.

Dory frowned, empathy radiating from her. “There, there...” She patted Regina on the back gently as she spoke. “Growing up isn't so bad. We're grownups and we're doing okay. I bet he is too.”

“He's in trouble,” Regina confessed without thinking. She quickly looked up to judge Dory's reaction and the woman was simply standing there, listening, a sympathetic ear when she needed one the most. “And I don't know how to protect him from everything he has go to through right now so that he can stay safe.”

“Well that's just silly,” Dory insisted. Her words were serious, but had a lighthearted tone about them. “I mean if you protected him from everything, what would he have left to do in his life?”

Regina couldn't help but smile at that logic, even though she knew what Dory meant and what was actually happening weren't really something that could be compared that way. Still, she was grateful to have had the outlet, if even for a moment. “I guess you're right,” she said sadly. “Thanks.”

“Sure,” Dory said drawing out the word in a way that said she wasn't very certain what she was just being thanked for, her memory of the conversation fading already. Suddenly she snapped her fingers and her face brightened. “Sugar! I came down to get the sugar!”

Regina reached over for a box of sugar packets and handed it over to her. “Well, here you go.”

“Thanks.” Dory took the box and headed for the stairs, then turned to look back at her. “Hey... You okay? You seem a little blue.”

“I'm good,” Regina told her with a smile that was weak, but genuine. “Take those sugar packets upstairs before you forget where they needed to go.”

“Sure thing, boss,” the other woman answered, trying to salute and hold the box at the same time, before stumbling forward up the stairs in a hurry to do as she was told.


	2. Chapter 2

Tilly looked around as they drove, uncertain as to where Weaver was taking her. “Aren't we going to the waterfront? I told Detective Rogers-”

“We have to run an errand first. My partner can wait,” the man told her as he stared ahead, his face one of determination, but his eyes held something in them that Tilly couldn't remember seeing before. They looked both sharp and soft at the same time.

Wary of the intensity inside his gaze, Tilly fell silent and turned to look out of the window, watching the city flash by with his reflection plastered over it, like a ghost rushing through the streets. It wasn't long until they came to a stop outside of a brick apartment building with unwashed windows. The place seemed cold and empty, and it gave Tilly the kind of chill that felt like something had drug its nails along her spine. She leaned closer to the window, peering upward to try and take it all in, but from where they parked, she could only make out the first two floors.

“Coming?”

Tilly spun around in the seat. “Pardon?”

Weaver sighed and gestured at the car door. “You're either coming with me or you're waiting here. Which is it going to be?” He didn't wait for her to answer, simply snatched up the bag she had brought with the cup pieces and got out of the vehicle, slamming the door behind him. Within a breath, he had moved to the sidewalk and climbed the few steps to the building's plain entrance.

Realizing she was about to be left behind, Tilly scrambled to follow, calling out a quick, “Where are we?” as she hurried to his side.

The words froze the detective's movements, the knob partly twisted, his hand stilled at an unusual angle from the wrist onward. It was as if he had to ponder the question so deeply that all other thought had to stop. Finally he let out an admission which seemed to release the mechanism and open the door as if by magic. “My place.”

Tilly hovered, mouth open, staring into the dim hallway beyond, before rushing to follow him through the entry. She knew almost all of his informants and not one of them had ever mentioned meeting Weaver anywhere like this. Dark alleyways and abandoned buildings sure, but his own home? Even she had never known, or even thought to look for, the street where he might live and it was fair to say that she was the one person he trusted most of anyone.“No one's ever seen your place,” she half whispered, in awe of the trust he was putting in her. 

“I assure you the other tenants in the building have seen it before,” he half grumbled, half chuckled as he began to climb the stairs.

“Well, I meant-”

“I know what you meant,” Weaver hissed back in a sharp whisper, stopping to glare over his shoulder at her. “Now can we please move on?”

Tilly nodded and followed. She made her way up three whole steps before questions began to fill her mind again. She fought them as she climbed, trying to focus her thoughts on the sensation, the sound of the steps as they let out a creak under Weaver's weight, the feel of the railing, rubbed smooth by an uncountable number of hands passing over the wood. By the time they reached the second floor, she found the words spilling out. “What are we doing here? Shouldn't we be-”

The detective turned with a sigh, exasperation on his face, but not penetrating that strange look in his eyes. “Before I send you to Rogers I have to give you the drawing. Now, can we please...” He stepped aside and his hand lifted to indicate the next step and she nodded, passing him quietly, then rushing up until she reached the the landing of the floor above and realized she had nowhere else to go. Here Weaver pulled out a key and walked to the only numbered door, tucked away at the end of the hall. When he entered, he didn't bother to invite her in, just left the door open and disappeared inside.

Tilly hovered at the top of the stairs for a moment, uncertain if she should remain where she was or enter, but as she pondered the situation, the sweetest smell drifted through the air and beckoned her forward. Hesitantly, she crept into the golden light that reached out to her, blanketing the old floor with warmth and a sense of belonging. She turned back to look at the stairwell, feeling the push of the emptiness they were leaving behind. No wonder he was sad, she decided, living so terribly alone at the top of a building with no one for company. The feeling pulled at her with a familiarity that was so unfamiliar that all she wanted to do was flee from it. One heartbeat later she entered the apartment, shutting the door as if something were after her.

Immediately the musty smell of the old building was gone, replaced with something floral and wonderful. “Doesn't anyone else live up here?” She asked the question as she took in the room. It was a single space that held the kitchen and living areas, divided in two by a simple island counter. Every surface was full of papers or boxes except for one small table in the corner that held an unopened bottle of whiskey and a vase filled to overflowing with large, red roses. Tucked under the cascade of soft petals was the brown bag Weaver had carried up, the top rolled down to accommodate it's size in the small space.

The detective was bent over the kitchen table, the only flat area with any available work space, busily scratching away at a paper with a dying pen. “I prefer to be alone,” he muttered in answer to her question. “Better that way.”

“Better for whom?” Curious as to the small table's tidy arrangement in an otherwise cluttered environment, Tilly reached out to lift the bottle for examination.

“Don't touch that!” The shout was desperate and sharp, making her snap her hand away faster than she could even blink. She turned to apologize and noticed what the detective was doing. 

Bottle and roses instantly forgotten, Tilly found herself moving to Weaver's side and gazing down into a beautiful sunset. “That's your drawing from before...” She stepped closer to examine the almost completed work. “You said... it was a memory?”

“It is. Something long ago and much farther away than you could imagine.” The words were so quiet that they almost didn't exist.

“It's lovely,” she offered. As she watched the final green lines being put down on the page, she was certain she could hear the swish of wind blowing occasionally through the trees that covered the mountains. Except that after a few swishes, she realized the sound wasn't the wind at all, but sniffles coming from Weaver. Gently she put her hand on his shoulder, letting it rest there until he pushed the drawing away.

“It's the view from my front porch,” he managed at last, reaching one hand up to wipe his eyes as the thumb of the other caressed the page's corner with a tenderness that nearly broke Tilly's heart.

Wanting to brighten his mood, she looked around and quirked her mouth up into a playful tease, even though he couldn't see what she was doing. “Well, it's definitely far away,” she proclaimed cheerfully, “because I haven't seen anything like that here.” 

The words brought a chuckle from the detective before his hand slammed down on the drawing, snatched it up and quickly folded the image in on itself, hiding the beauty within. Seeming to be consumed by madness, Weaver crumpled the page, then thrust it in front of her with determination. “Give it to Rogers,” he said with a finality that made Tilly want to refuse it. “Tell him you asked around and someone who knew the girl he is looking for gave this to you.” He pulled himself up to his full height and added coldly, “tell him she's dead.”

Without realizing what she was doing until it was done, Tilly took a step back, shaking her head. “I can't do that.” The words fell from her like stones, hitting the space between them with a sound of finality. 

Weaver sighed and dropped his hand. “Why not?”

“Well, it's... It's not true, is it?” She could hear her voice quivering with a sadness that she didn't understand, yet felt herself fill with a determination that made even less sense. She'd worked for Weaver for as long as she could remember. He had asked her to do all kinds of favors and errands and she had never questioned him once, but now the feelings of loyalty she'd had for him were all jumbled up with her need to help Detective Rogers, tangled and twisted like a pile of spaghetti on a plate. Everything was tied in knots and she couldn't find the beginning or the end to make it all make sense. “I can't lie to him...”

“It's not a lie,” Weaver said angrily, shifting his position in frustration and holding up the folded paper again. “The woman who saw this sunset _is_ dead.”

Tilly straightened, testing him. “How did she die then?”

The detective thought for a split second and said, “Car accident.” The words felt both right and wrong coming from him and his hesitation pushed them more to the side of untruth.

“What happened?”

“We were living back in-” Weaver began, then stopped himself and snarled. “Look, it doesn't matter!” He stepped closer, snatched Tilly's hand and put the paper against it. “What matters is that you tell Rogers _exactly_ what we need him to hear. Get his mind _off_ this case and everything will be right again.”

In that moment, looking into the amber crystal of his eyes, Tilly found some bit of information that she never knew she had lost. “She was someone you loved,” she told him with astonishment. The truth of her statement flashed into Weaver's sharp stare, turning it soft again before it hardened with a blink.

“Trust me, Eloise Gardner, is _not_ someone I think of fondly,” Weaver huffed, releasing Tilly's hand and turning around to straighten the pens on the table and tidy the space that probably hadn't been sorted out in weeks, if not longer. Tilly could recognize a distraction when she saw one, and she knew _she_ wasn't the one whose attention he was trying to divert.

“You want me to think this is about her, but it's not, is it? All of this is about something else.” She looked down at the paper, unfolded it, and gazed into the rich colors as her mind whirled and twirled around in circles, trying to work everything out. “This is a picture of someone, even though she's not in it.”

At this, Weaver stilled. He didn't answer but she didn't need him to. His reaction told her everything.

“Someone... Someone important...” Tilly felt a tingling in her mind as she tried to pull at some speck of something that she was _certain_ she knew. She paced the room, looked out of the window, turned back to the table with the cup pieces and the flowers, then shut her eyes tight and put her hands to her head as if she could soak the information out of herself just by pressing hard enough. “Oh... I know something, but I don't know anything!”

“My wife.” The words were soft and closer to her than she thought they should be. Opening her eyes, Tilly saw Weaver standing in front of her, his hands reaching out to guide her own down to her sides. “That is a picture of where she and I lived together.” He nodded at the paper, then looked up suddenly as moisture began to pool in his eyes. “And yes, _she_ is the one who died.”

The final words of his confession cracked in his throat and Tilly couldn't think of anything to do other than wrap herself around him and hold tight. Her body slammed to his and she squeezed on pure instinct, feeling as if it was something she had been doing her whole life, though she couldn't remember it happening even once before now. “I'm sorry,” she said simply as she clung to him, refusing to release her grip until he pushed her away.

“You're a smart girl.” Weaver gave her a sad smile. “There is so much more to all of this than I can tell you. Someday you'll understand, but right now I need you to do as I say. I can't explain why. You just have to trust me. Can you do that, Tilly?”

Tilly's eyes flicked around with uncertainty, taking him in one part at a time. She looked down at his hands, then up to his chest as if she could see his heart pulsing inside, then her eyes met his and she finally nodded.

“Good girl,” Weaver said, patting her arm.

“What do I say?”

The detective shrugged. “Anything you want that will convince him you're telling the truth.”

“But I can't-” Tilly protested again. He cut her off.

“All right.. You want to tell him the truth? Tell him the truth about that picture.” Weaver poked a finger at the paper in her hand, then paced to the roses and caressed one as he continued. “Tell him you talked to someone who dated her. That's me. We're talking now. Right?”

Tilly nodded.

“He gave you the paper, which I did, and told you she was dead.” Weaver's hand left the flower, clenching to a fist as his arm dropped, limp and useless looking. 

Tilly watched him swallow hard before he turned to look fully in her direction again, then shook her head. “I can't just.. He won't believe me. He'll ask questions...”

Weaver sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “All right. Practice on me.” He spread his arms out in offering. “Go on. Pretend I'm Detective Rogers. Tell _me_ what you're gonna tell _him_.”

“I...” One last time Tilly looked down at the paper in her hands.

“Tilly. Look at me.” Weaver reached out to grip her arms again and held her firmly until her eyes met his. “I _need_ you to do this. Detective Rogers _needs_ you to do this. It may not seem like it now, but convincing him that this story is true is the _best_ way to protect him from-” He stopped himself quickly and shook his head once. “Himself,” he finally finished, obviously changing his mind about what he should have said. “There is a lot about this case that he isn't aware of and hiding the truth from him is the _only _way to protect him.”__

__Uncertain, but wanting to do the right thing for everyone, Tilly nodded, swallowed, and took in a breath to help clear her mind. She puffed out the air with enough force to ruffle the hair that fell closest to her face, then pushed out the story with as much force as she had used for her breath. “So a girl named Rain had a car accident-”_ _

__Weaver blinked. “Rain?”_ _

__Tilly shrugged. “You were crying, it just... came to me.”_ _

__He nodded. “You'll have to say the car was stolen,” he told her with certainty. “The man is so bent on finding her he'll search every accident record on file otherwise. And tell him...” He paused as that same, sad look filled his eyes again. “Tell him she loved books.”_ _

__* *_ _

__The woods were sunny and cheerful and the slight breeze held the scent of the sea as it drifted by. Alice, eyes closed, took in a deep breath and imagined walking along the distant shore. She could almost hear the gentle lap of the waves as they shifted in and out along the sandy ground and the experience pulled her closer, like a magical string drawn and knotted around her waist, tugging to force her into forward movement. One step, two... The sun became warmer on her cheeks, making her smile grow. But then she ran into something._ _

__Opening her eyes, Alice looked down and saw a small rabbit. “Oh, dear me. I'm ever so sorry!” She bent down and helped the small creature right himself. “I really should look where I'm going.”_ _

__“No bother,” humphed the creature in a voice not too dissimilar from her own. “Do you always wander the forest with your eyes closed?”_ _

__Alice laughed. “Well, of course not. That would be silly. How would I know where I was going?”_ _

__“I see,” answered the rabbit, looking up at her. “Or perhaps I should say that you don't.”_ _

__This made Alice laugh so much that she had to sit down to keep from falling down. “Because I had my eyes closed...” she chortled, holding her sides. “That is very funny, Mister Rabbit.”_ _

__He smiled at her and waited patiently for her to gather herself before saying, “Thank you, but I must be going. I'm late for a friend's party.”_ _

__Alice's eyes widened at this news. “Oh, I love parties,” she said happily. “Will there be cake and cookies?”_ _

__“Well, of course there will be cake and cookies,” the rabbit insisted. “What kind of a party would it be if there weren't cake and cookies. Why, a party without cake and cookies is simply lunch and I am most certain that my invitation says, very specifically, 'party'.” He looked down at a paper that was tucked carefully under his arm._ _

__“May I see it?” Alice held out a hand and when the rabbit nodded, she gently took the paper and read it out loud. “Dear Mister Rabbit, Please come to my place at precisely noon for a party. Yours, Mister Hatter.” Below those words was a hastily written line which she read as well. “Also, the mouse will join us.” And below that was another, “Also, bring a guest.”_ _

__“There,” the rabbit said as she returned the paper to him. “There must be cake and cookies, since it very clearly says I am invited to a party.”_ _

__Alice looked around, a frown forming on her face. “But... You are all alone and it says 'bring a guest.'” Has your company become lost?”_ _

__The rabbit sighed. “Sadly, no. I am all alone.” He thought for a moment and then looked up at her, head tilted slightly to the side. “If I should ask you to be my guest, would you go with your eyes open or shut?”_ _

__“Open,” Alice insisted. “Most definitely. How would I see the table of cake and cookies otherwise?”_ _

__At this the rabbit nodded. “Then you are welcome to be my guest, if you like. The Hatter's home isn't far. Please follow me exactly. I would hate to have you lost.”_ _

__As the rabbit turned and hopped away, Alice took the words literally and hopped behind him, making sure that each leap brought her to the exact space that the rabbit had just vacated. They traveled together in this way for a minute or more, hopping along the path until, quite suddenly, Alice heard a marvelous crash that shattered the world around her. Trees stretched to become walls, and the path they had been following was now a wooden floor. “Oh my,” Alice whimpered as she looked around, finally seeing what had made the noise that had sent her far from her pretend world and transported her instantly back to the tower she called home. “Oh, Mister Rabbit, I'm afraid we have hopped right through one of my Papa's paintings...”_ _

__The stuffed rabbit on the ground beside her said nothing, only stared ahead with glassy eyes as her own eyes filled instantly with tears. “No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.” Alice fell more than sat backwards, her bottom making an awkward thump on the floor as she tried her best to avoid damaging the painting even further. Carefully, she pointed her toe and pulled the edges of the canvas as she drew back her leg, but no amount of care could hide the hole that was left behind once she was free._ _

__“This was one of his favorites...” The words came in a rush of emotion as she stood and stared at the ruined piece of art. A rip traveled almost directly across the water line, and the ship that once sailed the sea was now torn to pieces. Frantically, she looked around the room, in a vain hope that she could find something that would repair the damage, but could come up with nothing. “What am I going to do?”_ _

__As if in answer, the rabbit stared at her father's toppled easel. She must have hit it when they were hopping and knocked it over. Tiny flakes of dry paint had landed on the floor in a cluster that resembled a paw print and the image gave her an idea._ _

__Quickly, Alice hurried around the room, knocking into random objects, shifting her table one way, pushing over the chairs in the other direction, even rumpling the sheets on her bed. She was about to pull open her pillow and toss out some of the feathers when a voice behind her made her jump._ _

__“Alice!”_ _

__She threw the pillow down and turned to face her papa._ _

__“What happened in here?” His dark eyes glared at the mess she had made, taking in every bit of it, including the destroyed painting._ _

__“I... uh... A monster,” she settled on finally. “Some magical thing with... wings...” She reached down to pick up the pillow and hold it out to him. “It flew in and made this mess trying to get out.. I tried to....”_ _

__Her papa's frown twitched. His eyes held a sadness that she couldn't figure out. “Oh, Starfish,” he said at last, moving to her bed and sitting at the foot of it. When she sat beside him, he pulled her close and held her tightly. The words didn't sound worried or angry, but were filled with disappointment._ _

__“I'm sorry, Papa,” she cried into his chest, holding on tightly to him. “I tried. I did. Honest.”_ _

__Alice felt his chest rise and fall with a heavy sigh before he moved away enough to look down at her. “But you _aren't_ being honest, are you?” She closed her eyes and swallowed hard, unable to answer. “Starfish,” he said, his voice serious, but not angry. “ _Are_ you telling me what _really_ happened?”_ _

__Sadly, she shook her head. “No,” she whispered as she quickly stared down at the cover of her bed, unable to meet his eyes as she confessed. “I was playing and the easel fell. I stepped in the painting. I'm sorry, Papa. I'm so sorry.” The last words came out in great sobs that made her papa pull her against his chest again and hold her tightly._ _

__For a long time Alice cried and for a long time her father held her. His hand gently rubbed circles over her back and occasionally he would whisper soft words that she couldn't make out, but it was her lullaby that finally soothed her. The sounds vibrated inside of him as he hummed the tune and her breathing naturally slowed to match it. He spoke only when her tears had stopped and her whimpers had turned to brief sniffles. “There,” he said tenderly, still holding her, but not as tightly as before. “Now, can you look at me?”_ _

__Hesitantly, Alice pulled away and turned her eyes up to his. They were red and wet, but his mouth turned up in a loving smile despite the obvious tears he had shed. She reached up a hand to touch his cheek, afraid to feel the truth of what she had done, not wanting to find evidence that she had hurt him. “Papa,” she whispered, her words trembling with her own sadness. “I made you cry...”_ _

__His hand reached up to catch hers and bring it away. “No,” he said gently. “Let's not start that again.” He blinked and a trickle of moisture ran down his cheek, which he wiped away with a brisk swipe of his arm. Through it all, his smile remained. “Starfish, I want you to listen very carefully to what I am going to tell you. Can you do that?”_ _

__Alice nodded._ _

__“Good.” Her papa looked around the room, his eyes falling on the painting and remaining there for a long time before he turned back to her. “Before we talk, I want you to know something,” he said, waiting until she nodded to show she was listening. “I'm not angry with you, Starfish. What happened with the painting was an accident and I won't ever be angry with you because of an accident. Do you understand that?”_ _

__She nodded again. “Yes, Papa.”_ _

__Then he sighed. “I don't think what happened with the rest of this room was an accident, though, was it?”_ _

__“No, Papa.” Alice shook her head sadly, tipping her eyes back down to the bed for a moment before he reached for her chin to keep her from looking away._ _

__“Was there ever a monster?”_ _

__She shook her head again. “No, Papa.”_ _

__“I see,” he said in a stern voice that was somehow tender as well. “Then you made up a story so that you wouldn't be to blame for what happened. That is telling a lie and about that I am... disappointed.” The final word was a sigh that caused him to slump, then stand. He busied himself righting the table and chairs, then came back to her, but didn't sit. “Alice, you don't _ever_ have to lie to me to keep my love for you. There is nothing in any of the realms that could make me _stop _loving you.”___ _

____Alice jumped up to hug him, squeezing him so tightly that he let out a breath of surprise. “I love you too, Papa.”_ _ _ _

____“But...” The tone of the word poked at her heart as certainly as if he had jabbed at her with a finger. It made her step back and look up at him with worry. “Disappointment changes trust,” he told her seriously. “And trust is a very important part of being honorable, which is something that I know you to be.” He guided her to her usual spot at her small table and sat in his, reaching out across the surface to squeeze her hand. “Your heart has always been the lightest part of you, brighter than anything I have ever seen. I don't want to see that light go away. I want you to always be true to yourself.”_ _ _ _

____Alice tilted her head in confusion, her mind trying to understand the meaning of his words. “I lied to _you_ , Papa, not to me.”_ _ _ _

____Her papa chuckled at that and released her hand to adjust his position in the chair that didn't quite fit him.. “Being true to yourself means being who you really are. And who _you_ really are is a little girl who loves the world and everything in it, even what you haven't seen.”_ _ _ _

____She smiled at this because it was true._ _ _ _

____“You are also a girl who is honest,” he added seriously. It was a scolding that was not quite a scolding, and it held all of the hurt in her papa's heart. “That means you tell the truth, what really happened. Honesty and honor are very important things.”_ _ _ _

____Alice nodded, listening and thinking. If they were important things, her papa must have them too. She tried to think of a time he had ever said something to her that wasn't true, but she couldn't think of anything. “From now on,” she promised, “I will be honest and have honor, just like you.” She sat up straight as she said the words, her body rigid with her determination._ _ _ _

____Her father smiled, but it wasn't the bright beam that reached his eyes. Somehow his face was saying one thing, but his eyes were saying something else. He was quiet for so long that she began to feel uneasy._ _ _ _

____“Papa?” Alice leaned closer to study him, wondering if it was possible to tell a story with your eyes instead of your words. She opened her mouth to ask, but he stopped her._ _ _ _

____“Can't fool my Starfish,” he said with a chuckle, waving her over and drawing her to stand against him. “The _truth_ is that before I lived here with you those words meant something different to me. Back then, I believed that honesty was only important if someone got what they needed from it and I thought that honor was something I could win, like getting a prize after a game. I only learned the true meaning of those words when I heard your first cry.”_ _ _ _

____Alice blinked. “Me? I made you learn it?”_ _ _ _

____He nodded. “When you were a tiny baby. But before then my being confused got me into trouble and it hurt other people. So you see, I know what happens when someone uses truth and honor the wrong way and I don't want that to happen to you.”_ _ _ _

____“Oh, I don't ever want to hurt people,” Alice insisted with a severe nod of her head that almost made her dizzy._ _ _ _

____“Good,” her Papa said, smiling now with both his face and his eyes. He reached into his pack and pulled out a square package, tied shut with a string. Inside she could hear something rattle as it moved. “Now, I have something for you, but I can only give it to you if you promise to always be truthful because that is a very important part of what's inside.”_ _ _ _

____Alice's eyes widened at the gift. “I promise.” she said eagerly, then decided that if she repeated his words it would mean more, so she added, “I will always be truthful.”_ _ _ _

____When the gift was placed in her hands, she eagerly pulled the string and tore open the paper to reveal a plain wooden box. Her eyes darted up to her papa's and when he nodded, she lifted the lid and gazed down into the jumble of items below. Inside were the most unusual shapes she had ever seen and mixed in among them, one white eye peeped up at her. Tenderly, her fingers dipped in to the jumble and tightened around the face that stared up, unblinking. She pulled it out carefully and stared with amazement at its beautifully sculpted face. “Oh, it's a horse!”_ _ _ _

____Her papa smiled and poked around inside the box, looking for something. “And not just any horse,” he told her, pulling out its identical companion. “The white knight.” With great care he removed various other objects from the box and stood them on the table in front of her, naming each. Some where black and others were white, but none meant much of anything to her, until she saw the tower._ _ _ _


	3. Chapter 3

Rogers listened as the girl told her story. Her hesitation to deliver even the basic facts was more of a confession than the words themselves. She was acting like someone who had been coached, someone who had obviously had the tale stuffed into her so it could be pushed out on cue. Understandable, perhaps, since whoever she had been talking with probably had a long history with the law.

Then the words hit him. “She's dead.” Their finality stabbed at Rogers like a blade, slicing through his flesh and cutting off some vital part of his being, deflating his purpose and marking him forever a failure. He tried to repeat the news as a question, but could only swallow the final sound, silence being all that his throat could manage.

Eloise Gardener. Dead. And not killed by some no good low life, but by a simple car accident. All of these years, all of this time he had spent on this case, _certain_ that he would find her and clear his conscience... for nothing.

Finally he managed the only question that mattered: “How?”

“A car accident.” Tilly asked this as a question more than stating it as fact, something which he noticed but couldn't make his mind focus on. He stored the oddity away for later, telling himself that the expression of her uncertainty was just her nerves getting the better of her.

As he became lost in the cascade of thoughts and emotions, Henry and Tilly solved the case around him, their words coming at him and drifting away like the tide. Fake names, stolen vehicles, and unidentifiable bodies. From Henry he heard the whisper of an apology.

“I need to be alone.” Did he say the words or think them? It didn't matter. None of it mattered. The girl he had spent so long searching for had vanished from the world long before he had even begun searching. His feet moved and his mind shut down, leaving his body to do as it wished.

Step after step Rogers moved through the world, unaware of his surroundings. Barely conscious of even the sidewalk's existence beneath his feet, he wandered aimlessly, hearing nothing, seeing less, feeling only the mild sensation of his shoes making contact with the ground beneath them. Pressure came against the soles in a slow, steady rhythm which thumped inside of him. It felt like a heartbeat radiating up through his legs, a heartbeat that he had, but that Eloise Gardener would never feel again.

The old wound in his chest tightened and twisted, pulling his mind back in time to the dark alley and the blond woman who wanted him to have hope and believe that anything was possible. He tensed with the desire to shout a message into the past, to tell himself that nothing was possible and that hope was only a dream that would eventually shatter. It was the pane of glass that protected you from the cruelty and harshness of the outside world. One crack and the shards would tumble down, exposing everything it had protected to the cold reality of the storm outside.

Now more than ever Rogers was certain that the whole incident in the alley had been a dream, some delusion brought on by the severity of his condition. Loss of blood had made him hallucinate, brought up the image of someone who had never been. The woman with the kind eyes was only his body's last ditch effort to stay alive, nothing more. The pain in his lungs was evidence enough of that. Rogers swore inwardly at himself as he recalled timidly asking Henry about the illustration in his book. Had he actually believed she was the same one that appeared after he had been shot? The insanity of the idea was proof enough of his desperation.

As his mind tossed on the waves of his emotions, he trudged on, turning one random corner after another, going down streets that were deserted or mostly empty, wanting nothing more than to be alone. Suddenly, he reached a dead end and just stopped. Frozen in place by the inability to press forward, he lifted his gaze to take in his surroundings. The sky was darkening and street lights were just beginning to blink on, making him realize he must have been walking for hours.

“Where the hell am I?”

Turning, he retraced his steps to the nearest street corner and there, in front of him, was a Safeway Liquor store. Deciding that he was right where he needed to be, Rogers crossed the street and stepped inside.

 

* *

The door to the tavern creaked open and Killian stumbled inside, hand pressed to his chest, where the pain of the curse still lingered in his heart. After only a few steps, he was leaning against the counter that separated the patrons from Eadric, the keeper.

“Oh, I think you've already had enough, friend,” the man told him dryly, not even glancing up from his work.

Catching his hook between two of the wooden boards, Killian's throat rasped out, “Eadric...” before the pain of the breath was too much for him and he slumped downward. _Blast it,_ he thought with a hiss, _the man_ has _to remember me!_

“Killian?” Eadric turned, his eyes widening as he took in the sight of the sailor, then hurried around to help him to a chair. He looked up at someone that Killian couldn't see and called out, “Fetch the healer!” There was a scuffle in the corner, and the sound of someone rushing out of the door before Eadric spoke again. “What happened?”

“Poison,” Killian muttered. “A curse...”

At these words, several people in the dark room gasped and a few chairs were shuffled around, presumably as the uncertain patrons pushed away from their tables and prepared to exit for their own safety.

Eadric only nodded. “We'll get you healed up, good as new,” he told Killian with a certain nod, then, looking up at the gathering crowd, tilted his head to the side. “Let's get you settled in the back room.”

Killian nodded, though he didn't care who caught sight of him in such a vulnerable state. How could anything matter now that he had wronged Alice so terribly? Firm but gentle hands pushed him to his feet again and suddenly his arm was draped over Eadric's shoulder. With careful steps the two made it into the storeroom, where Killian was unceremoniously dropped into a nearby chair, with a quiet apology. “Wait here, I'll just tend to the others,” the keeper said softly. “Won't be a minute.”

Killian tipped his head back and stared, unseeing, at the boards that made up the ceiling. Though his eyes took in the small room, his mind superimposed his last glimpse of the tower on all that he experienced. The dark sky, the twinkling stars, the stones that seemed to reach up for eternity, and the cries of his little girl, begging him to return.

_Papa! Papa, where are you?!_ The words had echoed in his ears for miles as he had plodded along the path to the nearest village. Each cry like a blade to his chest, quickly bleeding out what little energy he had to spend on his journey, making every step seem hopeless. Still, he had to survive to find a cure, so he had pressed on, forcing his feet to move until he could stand no longer.

“Alice...” The whisper brought tears which he shed shamelessly. It hardly mattered now what others thought of him. Even in this realm, word of his duel with Ahab would have spread, along with the reason for their encounter. On the sea rumors traveled like wildfire through a dying forest. Everyone would know of his weakness now. He was counting on it.

The door opened and shut and Eadric returned to his side, with a woman Killian didn't recognize. “This is Muriel,” he said. “She... knows some things about curses.” It was a subtle hint that the woman had magic of her own.

Warm hands worked quickly on his clothing, exposing the upper part of his chest for examination, revealing the green glow on his skin. “Hm..” She whispered. “The poisoned heart...”

Killian forced his eyes to focus on hers. “Please...” He managed the one word and no more.

The plea crossed her face and consumed her expression, washing it with a sadness that told all. “I've not the cure for it,” Muriel admitted. “But I _can_ ease the suffering.”

Closing his eyes tightly against the truth, Killian let his head fall back again in defeat. He grumbled a kind of permission and a moment later, his chest began to warm with the magic from the witch's hands. After several breaths the pain had become a dull ache and Killian glanced down at his exposed flesh to watch the green fade, vanishing into his chest as if his body had simply absorbed it.

“There, now,” said Muriel with satisfaction. “How's that, then?”

Killian took a deep breath and nodded, his hand reaching up to rub the place that was sore. “Better,” he told her timidly.

“Well, the pain that's left will fade with time,” she explained, “but whoever made that curse come on can never be near to you again.”

Once more Killian shut his eyes, squeezing them tightly against the truth. From somewhere to his side, he heard Eadric excuse himself to tend to the tavern, leaving the witch and the ex-pirate alone.

“My daughter,” Killian admitted once the man was gone.

Muriel let out a sad sigh. “I see. And her mother?”

Killian almost laughed. “The one that did the poisoning.” He stood and took a step toward the wall, testing his strength as he spoke. “Forcing her own daughter to live in the prison that was meant for-”

“The tower,” Muriel cut in. “You speak of the girl in the tower.”

“Aye.” Killian swallowed hard. “She's my daughter.”

Muriel took a seat in the chair he had vacated and shook her head thoughtfully. “I know of the woman trapped there before, but she has escaped? And your girl in her place? Oh, this is bad... bad indeed.”

As the woman spoke, frustration built up in Killian until he could no longer hold it back. “Well, of course it's bloody bad, woman” he nearly shouted at her. “My daughter's trapped up there alone and I've no way to reach her!” He realized his anger was getting the best of him and held up a hand, lowering his head in apology. “She has no business being on her own-”

“Oh, the tower will take care of her,” the witch assured him. “You've no worries there.” When Killian opened his mouth to protest, she quickly cut him off. “ _But_ I've a child of my own... grown now, of course... Still, I know the heart of a parent from the years before and I wouldn't wish your predicament on anyone.”

Killian sighed, rubbing his hand to his head. “What do I do?”

“Not much you can, to be honest,” Murial told him. “The cure for the poisoned heart will be difficult to obtain, but, perhaps, not impossible... with the right kind of magic.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Oh, you're here again tonight, Miss Ivy?”

Drizella sat at her desk and smiled sadly at the brave member of the janitorial staff who had stupidly expressed their concern over her unusual hours. On the nights she worked late some brave soul always made the polite comment, then received nasty looks from the others who had to suffer through Ivy's complaining. No matter who was working, the question always came, and though she knew the words were spoken out of regret for having to deal with her company, Drizella could feel a spark of understanding. As late night employees, they all had the same experience: being worked to death by her mother.

It simply wasn't fair, she explained as she filed away random, meaningless papers, rattling off her woes to anyone in the room, that her mother could abuse Ivy's position just because they were related. The cleaners, well, they would get to go home once they were finished, but she, the unappreciated child, would remain here, finishing up work well into the night.

This announcement of her personal suffering worked to clear the room every time and tonight was no different. She watched the workers hurry their way through the cleaning, desperate to flee the endless verbal pummeling they received from her. These little “chats” with the help always made her feel that at least her mother had given her one good thing out of life: a name that made others cower in fear. Drizella could almost hear the whispers passed along in the hallways around her.

“Don't go in there, she's at it again.”

“For the sake of your sanity, be quick!”

“Leave the dusting for tomorrow. I want to get home tonight!”

Yes, even though she complained constantly, her job had its advantages. In fact, one of those advantages was the complaining itself. All she had to do to clear the floor was simply open her mouth to let out a sigh and everyone else scattered like mice rushing for the safety of their holes.

When there was no one left to talk to, Drizella turned on her computer, then sat back and listened to the last of the vacuums and mop buckets being wheeled away on the floor above. Once all was quiet, she clicked open several files, eager to go about the work that she reserved for one evening each week. It wasn't ever the same evening, of course. That sort of predictability wouldn't do for her cover story of abuse and torment. Letting others believe that her mother forced her to stay late every Wednesday just didn't have the same pain planted within it as some randomly chosen day did.

Poor, poor Ivy, thrust into working late hours on any day of the week, just because her mother couldn't be bothered to finish the day's menial work.

It was perfect.

For her first fifteen minutes at the computer, Drizella always made certain that she edited whatever files she had sloppily typed up earlier in the day. The slipshod work had been purposeful, of course, giving her mother an opportunity to wield power over her in front of anyone who happened to be standing nearby. This only fed the nasty reputation of Belfrey that was shared among the employees, who witnessed the tongue lashings and then undoubtedly gossiped about it around the water cooler. It was worth listening to her mother's public complaints about her ineptitude so she could have this little security buffer in the evening. Anyone who stumbled upon her now would see her busily correcting her mistakes or looking thoughtfully at the screen; a perfect representation of the dutiful daughter who only wished to make things right for the mother that barely gave her the time of day. Once the editing was complete and she felt secure in the assumption that she would be alone, the real work began.

“That's all, Miss,” the day's concerned cleaner announced softly from the corner of the room. It was a question posed as a statement and Ivy waved her off.

“I'll lock up myself,” she muttered, eyes never leaving the screen in front of her. “I don't know _how_ long this will take tonight.”

From the corner of her vision, Drizella caught a glimpse of a nod as the worker hurried to the elevator, whose doors had opened almost as soon as the question was answered. The woman had obviously pressed the call button before she had even spoken and Drizella wondered if next time she should add one more, suddenly urgent chore to that night's to do list, just to teach... whoever this was... a lesson about making assumptions about her dismissal.

With the elevator doors shut and the rest of the floor utterly silent, Drizella could go about the true tasks that had brought her here. She closed the old report she had been editing and opened two new folders; one that linked to the stockpile of video surveillance footage for all of her mother's properties, and another that contained the week's tracking data for her mother's car. Once the data sheet was settled to the left of her screen and the video folder to the right, Drizella reached down to her purse and pulled out a thick stack of receipts that she kept neatly folded in the small, secret pocket.

Opening the stack, she set the pile down beside the keyboard and pressed it flat with her palm before picking up the first one. It was the proof that someone had left the office to get takeout at 5:17 the Tuesday before and used her mother's bank card to pay for everything. With speed that came from many weeks of practice, Ivy scanned the data chart until she found the day in question, then located the closest approximate time that her mother's car was in motion. Since the program was one of her own design, made by some tech company created in the curse, it was an easy thing to alter the numbers so that they better matched the receipt. Once that change was made, it was an even simpler matter to glance over at the day's security folder, find the appropriate camera angles for Drizella's journey to the car as well as those showing her mother's time in the office, and delete all of the footage that would prove _she_ had left the building instead.

_Oh, Mother,_ Drizella thought to herself as she repeated the process for the next scrap of paper in the pile. _How kind you are to take care of your little prisoner. So much food, so many trips for supplies..._ She smiled as she edited the driving log again, forcing her mother to do the errands that she herself had been ordered to complete. _And now, when one of the detectives decides to look into your travels, there won't be any evidence to prove that you were here all along..._

Drizella had planned for that inevitability as well. She sat back and glanced at the calendar on her desk, wondering if the upcoming week was the best time to begin the second phase of her plan; pushing back her errands so that her return to the office coincided with her mother's secret visits upstairs. But the timing of her mother's demise wasn't as much dictated by any specific day as it was by the sheer determination of Detective Rogers. Eventually that man would learn the truth about Eloise Gardener and once he did, she would need to be able to deliver the driving records and surveillance video, which would turn out to be mysteriously altered.

She contemplated finagling some more time with Henry before progressing to stage two, but decided that if this were to look as if her mother's attention was slipping, her work _shouldn't_ coincide with another heart to heart chat. Drizella didn't need to get a feel for where the police were regarding the missing “girl.” She was certain that everything would start to fall into place soon.

As she transferred the elevator video to the main security folder, Ivy tisked at her absent parent. “It's a shame you weren't more careful, Mother. Someone's bound to catch you... some day...”

* *

By the time Rogers found his way back to the park, the evening was well underway and the place was deserted. He stumbled to the bench closest to the water and threw his weight down on it, hitting the wood with a satisfying thump that almost brought as much pain to his jolted bones as had been growing in his heart. Placing the unopened bottle at his feet, he turned his gaze from the temptation of the alcohol to the tranquil waters ahead of him, willing the rise and fall of the boats to hypnotize him into a state of complete mindlessness.

As the water lapped gently below, images came and went, all a jumble with no meaning. Sometimes he would see Weaver, sometimes Roni, Tilly, or Henry, and occasionally he would see a face that looked like someone he knew, yet seemed unrecognizable. Still, piercing through it all with their intensity, were the pleading eyes of a girl in need.

He had let her down and now she was gone. Without the chance to make things right, what purpose did he have any more? Since the night she disappeared, his entire career had been centered on Eloise Gardner and now he had nothing.

Rogers opened the notebook to the lost page and let his eyes wander along the river, drift like a breeze between the mountains, and settle on the arms of the sun that stretched upward to the brilliantly pink sky. The first time he had seen the image, he had thought of the sunrise of hope, but now all he could see was the sunset of goodbye. Unable to take the pain any longer, he threw the book to the empty space beside him, opened the bottle at his feet and lifted it to his lips, but try as he might, he couldn't bring himself to taste the old heart-numbing burn that its contents would bring.

_Drink, damn you!_ He swore at himself as he glared down the neck and inhaled the familiar scent of sorrow. _Swallow it down and forget!_

But he couldn't forget, not now and not ever.

Furious, he slung the bottle to the bench, sloshing the liquid into the air, bathing himself and the sunset in liquid pain.

At first he ignored the droplets that landed on the paper, since every page Rogers had ever coughed on, sneezed on, or spilled his coffee on had remained pristine, but now something brought his eyes downward. Not only was the paper wet, but the water was flowing along the riverbank, the ink lifting from the page to travel with the droplet as it rolled along the page, pulled by gravity to the paper's lowest edge. With surprise, he watched as the blue water and the rays of the sun began to reach out to him, rising from the book in a hope that made him reach out to touch the moist spot. Ink lifted from the page and caressed his thumb, leaving a small smudge on the image below. The transfer from book to hand pulled him from the bench and sent him running for the precinct.

The page was a fake and if the page was a fake, then his gut instinct about Tilly had been right all along. Someone had coached her on what to say about Eloise Gardner and the only man who could have done that was Weaver.


	5. Chapter 5

“Rumplestiltskin!”

The shout made Rumple jump. It always did. “I'm not deaf, you know,” he muttered to the pirate behind him. Straightening from his crouch, he lifted the bottle from the creek, turned, and waggled it in the air for Hook to see. “I almost dropped your refreshment.”

“My apologies,” Killian smiled, his eyes fixed greedily on the golden brown liquid within the glass. “On a hot day like this one, that would have been a most terrible outcome.”

Rumple chuckled. “The taste is growing on you, I see.” He closed the distance between them and gestured through the trees to his hut before continuing on in that direction himself.

“More the fact that you serve your tea chilled,” Hook explained, falling into step beside him. The two entered the building and the man's eyes went wide when the warmth of the cooking fire pressed at them in its attempt to escape the structure. “How do you not find this heat oppressive?”

“Meh.” With a flick of his wrist, Rumple dismissed the question. “Dark Ones aren't bothered by the temperature of the day.” He looked around the room, taking in the situation and the level of discomfort he would be forcing upon the pirate. At least opening the windows would allow a cross breeze, but it probably wouldn't be good enough. Inwardly he swore at himself for not thinking of this sooner. It had been so long since he had regularly hosted anyone inside his own home and until recently Belle had always been around to make sure everything was just right for when company arrived. Spinning in place to try and shake the memory of her smile, he turned to wave an arm at the door they had just entered. “We can sit outside, if you like.”

Hook moved to his usual chair and promptly sat. “No,” the pirate insisted, his refusal all the incentive Rumplestiltskin needed to go about opening up the windows. “I've had worse some days at sea. I'll be fine.” He offered a smile to the Dark One as if displaying the very truth of his words in his cheery expression.

Rumple smiled back as he propped open the last shutter and moved to check on the meal he had been warming. “If you are certain.” Seeing that the meat was fully cooked, he cooled the fire and brought plates, cups, and utensils to the table. As he worked to set the space, he nodded to a tightly wrapped package that was propped up in the only other chair in the room. “I have a gift for you and Alice,” he said. “She told me you should open it.”

“Me?” Hook blinked in surprise and sat forward to study the box where it sat.

Rumple let out an excited giggle. “Well,” he admitted playfully. “I _might_ have already let slip to her what is inside...”

At this Hook snorted, though a smile grew on his face as he stood and took the gift for closer examination. “She probably guessed what it-”

The Dark One froze in place, meal half served, as he heard the contents shift within the wrapping. His gaze jumped from the box to Killian's face and back again, relishing the reaction that he knew would come. He had expected the sound to be instantly recognizable and he was not disappointed.

Hook's eyes were opened so wide they looked as if they might fall from his head and his mouth was frozen in the shape of his unfinished sentence. Carefully, yet with sudden eagerness, he pulled at the twine that bound the paper to the box and tore the wrapping until the black and white squares were revealed. It wasn't long before his eyes lifted, revealing the moisture that threatened to spill out.

“I take it you can guess the contents as well?” Rumple tapped his fingers against each other, unable to contain his joy over the pirate's surprise.

In awe, the other man sat the box carefully on a clear space at the table and opened the lid. With extreme tenderness, he picked out one carved wooden figure after another, turning each over in his hand and holding each up to his eyes for closer inspection. “Alice and I used to play when she was a girl,” he said at last. It wasn't an answer to Rumple's question, but he didn't need one.

“Yes, I've seen the board in her cottage.” Rumple shrugged and poured a serving of the chilled tea for each of them. “I thought you might like one for yourself... Something more suitable to your current nomadic lifestyle with the resistance?”

Rumple quickly pointed at a small table in the corner, a new addition to the tiny space he lived in. It took up very little room, but was exactly large enough to hold the box once it was unfolded into the simple chess board that it was meant to be. “Of course, if you prefer, you are welcome to leave it here,” he explained. “That way, each time one of you visits, you can take your turns and your correspondence can be reserved for more important things than numerical codes and game strategies.”

Killian laughed. “The same old Rumplestiltskin...”

Frowning, Rumple looked up at him and muttered an impish, “What do you mean?”

“Well,” the pirate said, looking him square in the eye. “It seems to me that this is a gift for yourself, Dark One.”

“And how do you come to that conclusion, Pirate?” Rumple found a smile pulling at his lips even though his manipulations had been found out. The days where such secrets mattered were long behind him and he welcomed the accusation with an open heart that accepted it for what it truly was: an act of friendship.

Killian raised an eyebrow, holding up a bishop and pointing it at Rumple in a mock threat. “If I keep the board here, Alice and I will need to visit more often in order to continue our game.” He set the piece down and leaned back into his chair, arms folded. “Perhaps that crossed your mind?”

Rumple tilted his head from side to side, pretending to weigh his options before admitting in a sing-song way, “Well, yes... I might have been a _tad_ selfish in my designs...”

At this, with not even a glance cast to the indicated corner, Hook promptly emptied the box's contents onto the table in front of him, opened it fully into a board, and began to set each piece into its designated square. “Then I think you should do me the honor of being my first opponent,” he said as he worked.

This news seemed to bounce off Rumplestiltskin like a stone. He could almost feel the words hit his chest and fall around him to scatter at his feet on the floor. His eyes followed each playing piece from table to square as if his gaze alone was responsible for setting up the board. “I... I don't understand.”

Killian gestured to the set-up in front of him. “Surely you've played before.”

“Well, yes... but..” Rumple stumbled over the words, not wanting to offend, but not wanting to take the first game away from the father and daughter whose lives were so clearly bonded to the game itself. “You and Alice should-”

“Alice would agree,” Hook insisted gently, holding out a hand to the opposite side of the table where Rumple would sit. “You have become as much of a father to her as I am. She would never forgive me if I denied you the first game on a board which you promised to keep safe for the sake of our situation.”

After a polite hesitation, Rumple sat, his fingers first fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt sleeves in an attempt to expend some of his nervous energy, then flitting about in the air as he desperately grasped at any move that the pirate wouldn't pick out as made by a relative novice. “Alice takes her sense of honor from her Papa, I see,” he said at last, moving one of his middle pawns forward.

Killian moved next, sighing as he placed his own pawn. “No,” he answered with such sadness that Rumple stared up at him in disbelief. “I can't say that she got it from her mother, but she most certainly didn't get it from me.”

Rumple made his next move, then leaned back, frowning. “Why say that?”

“It was my bloody honor that got me poisoned in the first place,” Hook rumbled as he reached for his glass and took a mighty swallow of tea. “You know, she only lied to me once? Once. In all of our time together...” In frustration he snatched up a bishop and shifted it forward. “She had been playing while I was away, pretending, and stepped through one of my paintings while she was dashing about the room. She tried to blame it on some imaginary creature...”

“Something most children try,” Rumple reassured the pirate when his words trailed off into sadness and guilt, and it was clear no more would come. “It's only natural for them to test their boundaries. It's how they learn.”

Killian shook his head. “She learned, all right,” he said after a moment. “She learned that her Papa couldn't live by his own standards.”

Rumplestiltskin mindlessly moved another piece and frowned at his opponent. “I sense a story drifting in...” He studied Hook's expression carefully before clumsily adding, “I'd be happy to hear it... If... you needed someone to tell it to...”

Though the two hadn't been friends long, they had quickly discovered that the very nature of their lives made them so remarkably similar that conversations which would have been hard to hold with others seemed to flow between them just as easily as regular chatter would elsewhere. The two often exchanged stories of plans thwarted and past deeds that they would never even contemplate as part of their lives now. Rumple had found it to be a stunningly beautiful experience, something that lifted his heart and lightened his thoughts in a way that only Belle and Gideon had managed to do before. There was no judgment between himself and Hook and that was what set them both free.

Now Rumple sat, game forgotten, as he listened carefully to the story of Alice in her tower, of the day she broke the canvas and her father's resulting lesson in honesty and honor. He nodded now and then, put in the occasional grunt of approval, but otherwise was silent as the pirate told his tale, shifting it from the distant past to the last time they had been together, the deal made with the Dark One, Ahab, and the duel. He smiled as he realized that Hook probably could have befriended his own nemesis instead of picking an alternate version to share meals with, but he saved his gratitude for another time so that the story could flow without interruption.

“When I got back to the tower, I was so certain I had found a way to release her,” Killian whispered hoarsely, swallowing his anger and rubbing the back of his hand against his overly moist eyes. “She reached up to hug me and...”

Rumple waited for more to come, but nothing did, so he offered the most probable ending. “You were thrown apart...”

“Right across the room.”

“The bullet,” Rumple realized. “It was poisoned.”

Killian nodded and gulped down the last of his tea in the manner of someone who was used to his glass being filled with a more fiery liquid. “It was.”

The Dark One's scaled hand reached across the table to grasp the pirate's arm and give a squeeze of comfort. “You couldn't have known.”

“If I hadn't let my pride get the best of me-!” Hook choked on the words and threw his head back, staring up at some point in history that Rumple would never see. “I had what I needed! I could have chosen Alice! Instead-”

“You _did_ choose Alice,” Rumple hissed back at him, not angry, but filled with determination. His severed fate insured that he had been down the path of guilt more times than anyone had a right to count and he was not going to let his new friend do the same. “The minute you dwell on the rest is the minute you become lost in what you _were_!” His eyes fixed a cold stare on the pirate, willing him to accept what was being said by their intensity alone.

Killian took in a long breath. “I guess you would know something about that; Baelfire and all..” He offered a sad smile and lifted the nearly empty bottle of tea to divide the contents between their two cups. There were no spoken apologies for dredging up the pains of the past. This friendship between them never seemed to require such things and Rumplestiltskin was grateful for the pure honesty. He suspected Hook felt the same.

“Worse, I did the same with Gideon,” Rumple admitted, staring down at his now empty plate and wishing he had something other than words to fill his mouth with.

“Your youngest?” Hook raised a queering eyebrow. “You said he lived with you until he went off to his studies.”

Rumple glanced in the direction of the family's travel book, sheltered from the realm's lack of climate control by a simple protection spell that shattered when touched but kept the elements at bay. It was the only magic he allowed himself to use in the house. “He did. But he... Oh, where to begin..?”

“Anywhere you like,” Hook offered. “I'll catch on.”

Nodding, Rumplestiltskin began a semi-wandering tale of Gideon's story, which started with the creation of the Black Fairy, who had kidnapped him, wandered through happier times with Belle, her pregnancy and their separation, and hovered at length on Gideon's original return to Storybrooke.

Killian listened to all of it, his gaze never wandering, fixed only on the storyteller and the history finally spoken. Unlike the Dark One, he occasionally asked questions, expressed sadness or regret at things that had happened, or shared the pains he would have had in a similar situation. “I can't imagine,” he said now, shaking his head and finally looking down at their forgotten game. “To be the one to kill your parent... Not once, but twice?”

“It gave me my son back,” Rumple answered without hesitation. “ _Nothing_ matters more than that.”

After a long silence, Killian moved his queen across the board, muttering, “check,” before sitting back to study the Dark One. “Do you mind my asking... You speak so fondly of your life with Belle and raising Gideon... Why didn't you...” He shrugged apologetically.

Rumple knew what the rest of the question would be and saved his friend the trouble of saying it. “We couldn't,” he said flatly, moving his king out of check and staring down at it as his mind drifted to the past.

“I'm sorry.” The words were honest and held a weight that pressed down on the whole room. “I already know you to be a truly devoted father. And I know that any other children would have flourished just as Gideon-”

“It's my own fault.” The words shot from Rumplestiltskin before he realized he had spoken them. They came so harshly that they seemed to propel him from his chair and send him pacing across the room. Once the truth of them had escaped, he gave over the careful control he had of himself and allowed the guilt of the past to flood his mind. Pressed down for so long, it rushed to the surface like a cork released from the bottom of a water barrel, thrusting itself to the air with the most forceful determination known to nature.

“Now if I'm not allowed to blame myself,” Hook scolded, “I can't let you do the same.”

Rumple wouldn't allow the relief to be gifted to him. He stared into the long dead fire, eyes fixated on the blackened coals that seemed to represent the weight of his past and the new darkness in his heart. “No,” he told Killian. “When Belle was pregnant I made a potion; a spell to speed up her pregnancy. I knew she was distancing herself from me and I refused to lose another child the way I did Baelfire.”

“But... You didn't give it to her,” Killian offered uncertainly.

“I couldn't.” Rumple cried now, the tears flowing so freely that the stones of the hearth and the blackened coals were all one blur of color, indistinguishable from each other and anything around them. “The Evil Queen got her hands on it,” he said through a sob, “and got it into her tea...”

Hook stood with determination and crossed the room. “Well that's hardly _your_ bloody fault.”

Rumplestiltskin deflated, every ounce of himself hissing out in a single, endless exhale. He turned to Hook, who was now standing beside him, and the pirate reached out to catch his arm, holding Rumple upright in a desperate grip. “She altered the potion,” he sobbed. “Introduced an ingredient to prevent pregnancy.” He leaned heavily into the hold on him, wavering in his balance as he rambled in grief, and grateful for Killian's gift of strength in this time of weakness. “The birth was so hard... And I wasn't there...” He closed his eyes to the truth of it. “The fairies did everything they could to heal her.. I even took Belle to Lake Nostos …”

“But _Regina_ did that,” Hook insisted, almost shaking Rumple as he spoke to force his eyes open again.

“The Evil Queen,” Rumple reminded him, breaking from Hook's grip and flicking the protest away. “Not the woman you know.”

“Right,” Hook said offhandedly. “The point is it wasn't _you._ By your own account, you actually _failed_ to hurt her.”

“If I had dosed Belle with that potion, she wouldn't have-”

“No!” The word shot at Rumple like the bullet from a pistol and the Dark One stumbled backward toward the hearth. Again Killian's hand reached out to catch him, squeezing so tightly it felt as if his arm would burst. “You bloody well never let me talk that way and I bloody well won't let you do it to yourself.”

Spinning on his heel, Hook crossed the room to the travel book and thrust his hand through the magical shield, dissipating it in a scattering of light. In a single, smooth motion, he snatched the book from its resting place, brought it back to Rumplestiltskin and slammed it hard into the man's chest, knocking him backwards into the chimney's rough stones. “You need a bloody reminder, Mate,” he said nodding down at where his hand held the cover firmly in place. “Take this and listen to your own bloody advice.”

Despite the seriousness of what had just happened, Rumplestiltskin felt a short, uncontrollable chuckle rumble deep within his chest.

“Was something entertaining?” Hook's eyebrow raised playfully, though his eyes remained sharp as daggers.

Rumple shook his head. “With all this 'blood' spilled between two villains... You would expect a battle.” He made a show of looking around the room, as if for evidence of a sword fight between them.

This time it was Hook who let out a puff of amusement. “Well, if you're going to beat yourself up there /should/ be blood.” he said flatly. “And I, for one, expect _tea_.” He paused a moment, then turned to the door, casting the next words over his shoulder. “I'm going to get some.” The rest of the instruction hung in the air between them, unspoken. _You sit and have a chat with your wife while I'm gone._

With the weight of the past pushing him downward, Rumplestiltskin somehow managed to drop himself into the pirate's vacated chair. “Oh Belle,” he whispered, caressing the petals of the rose at the center of the book's cover. As had always happened when he spoke to her, silence filled the room which caused tears to make faint rivers down Rumple's cheeks. He blinked them away and opened the book to some of the first pages, gazing down at images from a lifetime ago. His hand hovered next to a snapshot of Belle and Gideon, surrounded by the warm, purple glow of a carousel fish and his mind rushed backwards in time.

_These will be our fish because your Papa likes purple things..._

As more tears fell, Rumple looked up to the doorway, certain he had heard a noise outside that signaled Hook's return, but the space was empty. Knowing the man was hovering out of sight to allow him his privacy, Rumplestiltskin gazed back down into his wife's eyes, smaller in the capture of history, but still as full of life and love as they had ever been throughout their adventures together. “Belle,” he rasped softly through his grief. “I don't know if you can make things happen here from wherever you are waiting for me, but if you brought me this friendship... Thank you.”

* *

Rumplestiltskin had written a very specific component into the first Dark Curse, making certain that every useful item within the spell's radius would be transferred to property under his control once the spell was cast. The arrangement had given him immediate ownership of anything with important history or magical power and helped assure his place in the town of Storybrooke. At the time it was something he felt necessary, but now that arrangement was beginning to wear on him. After hours of digging through all of the actual evidence against the city's criminals, he had only a few boxes and bags piled up beside him, most still with plenty of room for items from the other realm. The collection was nowhere near the size he had expected, and none of the things he had found were what he needed.

He _knew_ everything was here, it _had_ to be. Ivy was too focused on her mother's pain to have noticed or cared about a few choice words hidden away inside a complex spell and she certainly didn't have the patience required to change them. Yet even the most important objects had eluded him with such ease that Rumple was beginning to wonder if something in the core of the magic had been altered when the terms of the curse had changed. The dagger had been easy to find since even the strongest curse couldn't separate him from it, but the rest of his personal possessions had eluded him. At least the cup had stayed with Alice. If it hadn't been for that, he would be trapped in Weaver's identity for who knew how many years. He needed to get the cup repaired. Rumple had nothing of Belle to cling to and he was beginning to go crazy talking to the bottle of whiskey every night.

With a sigh, he sealed one final envelope, filled out some nonsense paperwork about the “crime” the contents had been involved in, and set it to the side with the other bagged or boxed items thrust into this realm along with their owners. He would find a way to return everything, but not until he had what he needed.

Heart heavy with loss, he moved the containers into the evidence cage he had emptied and repurposed for his own needs. It was currently number two of many that he knew would be gradually converted, but it was painfully empty, with a scattering of things on various shelves and a single box that held his dagger. He really needed a new place to put that, he realized. Even with the lock on the cage _and_ the lock on the evidence room door, he still felt a severe unease at the notion of leaving it sitting around. Anyone could break in and steal it if they were awake or remove it by accident if they weren't and then he would be in a very serious situation, control of the neighborhood's most corrupt policeman lost to whomever had found their way in, purposefully or otherwise. He hovered beside the green metal, then lifted the lid and gently pulled the dagger free. Maybe he _should_ keep it on him, lock it up here when he was on duty, but keep it with him whenever he left. A man like Weaver wouldn't need an excuse to be carrying around such a weapon. He wouldn't even let anyone ask the question of his having possession of it in the first place.

Without warning, a banging came at the door and Rumple hesitated with uncertainty before hiding away the blade and dashing to let in whoever was pounding the hell out of the metal surface before they drew any unwanted attention to his illicit rearrangements. He was hardly surprised to see Rogers, nor was he shocked when the man ignored Weaver's obvious desire for privacy and pushed his way into the room.

_The page,_ he realized instantly. _He knows._

The deception hadn't lasted as long as he had hoped and hadn't deterred the man from the fruitless quest he had taken upon himself to complete either. Cursed as Killian was, he had just enough memory to know a girl was alone because of his actions, but he had no idea that the girl he sought was is own daughter and living along side him every day.

Rogers went on about the ink, the fire of determination in his eyes and a set to his jaw that said he had reached the limit of tolerance when it came to Weaver's treatment of him and there was nothing that Rumple could do but stand and take it. He had exhausted every avenue available to him to slow the man's progress in his private investigation. Now, like everything else he had ever done to help others, he was faced with defeat. At least he had brought the shy, useless detective out of his shell. Rumple might not have been able to wake the pirate inside of Rogers, but it seemed he had _finally_ kindled the spark of Killian Jones that had been asleep within. It was a shame that the price had been the other man's trust.

“So you do make a good detective after all,” Rumple said as Weaver, keeping his expression blank and his voice bland. How many times had the two of them beaten each other with friendly banter like this, tested each others mettle with casual insults that only served to lift their spirits in the end? It would have seemed cruel to others, but the honesty was what they had needed and now it served the dual purpose of falling into old habits and filling Weaver's shoes at the same time. “I never would have guessed that,” he added at last, knowing it would push the other man to the edge. After waking up, reliving the loss of Belle, and all that was going on here, he desperately needed his friend beside him and if that meant manipulation, that's what he'd resort to.

Without warning, Rogers slammed Weaver backward, his body hitting the evidence locker hard, rattling the cage and Rumple's bones all at once. Immediately the memory of their last similar encounter rushed forward, one of the very few times either of the two had used force on the other. Killian had thrust the travel book at him and insisted he cool himself down from his emotional nonsense. Now, the action was the same, but the roles would have to be reversed.

“You lied! And you made Tilly lie. Why would you do that?”

Of course he'd be angry about Tilly's deception, Rumplestiltskin had actually counted on the past that Rogers couldn't remember to subconsciously feed the man's anger and drive the pirate's sense of honor to defend and protect her. He had hoped it would bring them together in the end, but now he worried that the bond between the two wasn't yet strong enough and that Rogers would turn from Tilly because of her association with Weaver. Another failure.

_Damn it._ Rumple swore internally at the ineptitude that had been thrust upon him by the severing of his Savior's fate. “Get your hands off me,” Weaver countered, shoving Rogers away.

“Was it Belfrey? Did she put you up to this?”

Why couldn't he just wake up? Why couldn't Rumple say anything to snap whatever it was inside of Rogers that held Killian hostage? He _needed_ a friend right now, needed someone to plot with against Rapunzel, someone to listen to his trials and verbally slap some sense into him when he went mad with his need for Belle. He needed the strength in the life that had been stolen from him and the man behind Detective Rogers was the only one in Hyperion Heights who knew exactly how to remind him of the man he truly was.

As came naturally to their friendship, Rumplestiltskin told the truth, sugarcoating nothing and admitting Belfrey's manipulations without guilt or regret. “Actually yes, she did, but..” The words felt meaningless spoken to the stranger that was Rogers and Rumple paced away, unable to face the familiar exterior that was nothing but a shell of the man he once called friend. Killian deserved to know everything but the cursed Rogers would never understand any of it. He would probably think Weaver mad and it wouldn't be hard to have him thrown from his position after all he had been doing down here, or any number of events in Weaver's past. He needed his position to best protect everyone, he couldn't allow that to happen. “That's not why I did it,” he said at last, giving up Weaver to let Rogers see the real man behind the badge.

“Then why?” The words were a plea for help and his friend's need for honesty weighed heavily in Rumple's chest, settling there and filling him until it pressed at his mouth, urging him to release it no matter the cost.

How was he supposed to answer that? 'I needed you to be with your daughter and keep you from unleashing her mother into the world at the same time?' The question churned in his mind as he grasped at anything that would suit both their needs. His entire body quivered with the strain of his responsibility and for a brief moment a flash of Emma's trembling hand came to him, thrusting the pain and weight of their mutual fates upon him and making him wonder what she would have done. He knew, of course. She would have set aside her own needs and helped Hook, even if he wasn't the man she had married, but that wasn't good enough for Rumple. He was certain there was a way to give _each_ of them what they needed.

Calling on everything he had ever learned about Killian and Rogers he decided to nudge the man's curious nature, throw him a line and see if he could slowly reel the detective in, given enough time. If Weaver couldn't wake the pirate, maybe Rumple could. “Because you don't know what's going on 'round here,” he finally said, pulling on their cursed memories and using them to tell the truth of both stories. He stepped forward and Rogers moved back, obviously taking the words as a threat rather than seeing them as the help he so earnestly had asked for. Rumple tried to ignore the fear and pressed on, his tone soft, his posture casual. “I know you think you do. But you don't.”

Rogers hesitated before stammering out, “Sss... So... tell me..” The words might as well have come from Killian himself, minus the uncertainty. How many times had he said them to Rumple? How many times had they encouraged each other to share their pains and release their torments by simply telling the other to get on with it. No beating around the bush, just a variant of that same phrase.

The familiarity of it released Rumple from his worries, relaxing him into instant, casual response. “Even if I could, you wouldn't believe. Not yet. You just have to trust me when I say, everything I've done in this case was for one reason...” He paused, willing the man he knew to catch the line he was about to throw; the word that had almost become a joke between them whenever they were battling something within themselves. “To protect you from your _bloody_ self.”

_If you're going to beat yourself up,_ he thought, _there should at least be blood..._

The line dropped short. Instantly Rogers hardened against him, tossing out angry accusations of Weaver's solitude and cruelty, but it wasn't the pain of his failure that hurt the most. What stabbed him to the heart as certainly as if he had been shot again was that the reaction was exactly the opposite of what Killian would have done. Instead of reminding Rumple that there was hope, that his love for Belle would prevail, he insisted that Weaver cared for no one and nothing but his own power.

Deflated, Rumple made a half-hearted attempt to stop the other detective, sighing out at him one last time to end his quest. Surprisingly Rogers stopped, willing to hear him out. _The man I know is in there,_ Rumple thought, trying one last time to reach out to him. “Look... I know that you feel that you know this girl, but Eloise Gardener is _not_ who you're looking for.”

For one breath, then another, there was silence between them, filled only by Rumple's pure desire for Killian to emerge, but in an instant the hope was gone and Rogers had left him alone.

Rumplestiltskin could feel his jaw clench in anger, his hands tightening to fists at his sides. He had failed. Again. It shouldn't have been so surprising considering that he was destined to _not_ fulfill his destiny, but the pain of losing his friend this way was almost as great as it had been whenever his best intentions toward Belle or Gideon or Bae had backfired. The swell of pain rushed through his heart, up his chest, and out to his arms and before he could stop himself, he had swept the work table clean of every object it had once contained.

With a roar he stared up at the long fluorescent lights, willing them to burn through him and end his time here. He would never get to Belle, never see Gideon again, never be the Savior he needed to be to rid himself of this damned curse. In utter defeat he fell forward to the table, his elbows holding his weight as he wept through his hopelessness.

A crinkle of paper made him open his eyes and he glanced down at the crumpled sheet trapped beneath his boot. Bending to free it, he lifted the image and gazed into it, the sun setting as it always had in front of their cottage. “Oh Belle,” he whimpered. “I can't do this. I know you thought I could, but I can't...”

One tear fell from his cheek and landed beside a smudge on the paper, blending with it and making him stare hard into the past. Rogers had smelled like rum, not strongly, but the trace of it had been obvious when he'd pushed past Weaver in the doorway. The drop he had mentioned hitting the picture must have been from a hastily rejected bottle. Hook had been lucky enough to fall into the curse as the man he had hoped to be; a former drunk who had given up all indulgences for the sake of his daughter. Rumple hadn't been so lucky. Weaver was made up of every part of Rumplestiltskin he despised, almost as if he had been created from everything he had ever done to hurt someone, or built from everyone who had hurt him, like his father. He had spent a lifetime with Belle becoming the loving father and husband he had always wanted to be and climbing out of the darkness that had consumed him. All that time, all that effort, all that love now felt wiped clear, erased from history as if the time had never been spent at all. Maybe, he decided, it was time to let Weaver have his way again.

Tucking the paper into his pocket and fetching the dagger from its hiding place, Rumple stormed out of the room, leaving behind the mess he had created. Weaver had a tab at Roni's and it was about time he ran it up.


	6. Chapter 6

With only a few hours until closing, Jacinda was still gliding effortlessly between tables, filled with an energy fueled either by her desire to be helpful or her need for permanent employment. Regina watched as the woman worked and decided it was probably a substantial portion of both things feeding her drive to be the perfect employee. She wished that she could find her own fountain of determination somewhere in this hellhole that was Hyperion Heights, but without anyone to support her, the well of energy was running dry. 

Jacinda's strength came from Lucy, who knew how hard her mother was working to protect her, but Henry was only a man from out of town who had stumbled into Roni's life through a random twist of fate. He had no connection to the bar owner whatsoever and though Regina knew she would fight for her son as long as she drew breath, every time she made progress towards his happiness, the fate he would suffer if she woke him forced her to cause him pain. Every day felt as if the two were stumbling around a void, calling out, but unable to hear each other. She would brush past him, almost latch on, and then he would vanish, leaving behind only his cries of heartbreak as her way back to him.

The ironic thing was that she seemed to have become the support for everyone else from the other realm. Roni's was where people felt comfortable sharing their worries and knew they would be lifted up by those around them. It had become more than a bar since she had woken up, it was a place for community, togetherness, and hope, a place the Charmings should have been running, not the formerly titled Evil Queen.

She sighed as she glanced in the corner, where her son sat nursing his fourth beer. He had arranged his chair so that his back was to the room and it broke her heart to just leave him there, miserable and alone. She wanted nothing more than to rush over, scoop him up in her arms and admit that she was the one responsible for Jacinda's abrupt rejection before shoving the two of them together and leaving them to make up on their own. Drizella's version of the curse was much darker than hers had been, filling the lives it touched with pain and torment that mirrored the woman's own. At first Regina had seen it as accidental, but the more time she spent watching the cursed patrons in her bar the more she believed in Drizella's lust for punishment.

As if fate were trying to prove her theory, the door opened and Weaver strode in, marching himself up to his usual seat at the bar. The spot was occupied and there were plenty of other stools to choose from, but the Detective ignored this, his movement toward “his” place so full of purpose that it brought the single occupant to a surprised frenzy. One silent sneer from Weaver had the anxious man snatching up his drink and dashing away for a more distant seat at the far wall.

“Detective,” Regina greeted, ignoring the fact that he just ran off a customer because Roni would have let it happen. “The usual?”

Weaver nodded once and grumbled, “Double.”

Rolling her head forward a little in acceptance, Roni reached for the MacCutcheon and a clean glass. “Double it is,” she said and poured. Before she had even lifted the neck away from the rim, Weaver snatched up the drink, threw it back and slammed the empty glass back down, tapping the bar top with his finger to indicate his desire for an instant refill. “Must have been one hell of a day,” she suggested as she served him again.

“You have no idea,” Weaver grumbled, swallowing only half the of the brown liquid this time. He stared down into the rest for a moment as if he were in deep contemplation of the whiskey's fate before suddenly consuming it, then he waved his finger at the bottle and pointed to his glass. “Again.”

Regina tilted her head worriedly. “Anything you want to talk about?”

Weaver raised a cold stare to meet hers, leaning forward, elbows on the bar. “If I wanted useless advice, I'd go find a cricket,” he hissed.

“A cricket?” Shock hit Regina almost too quickly for her to contain. She could feel her eyes widen and her mouth begin to drop, but tried to hide her reaction under the guise of brushing debris from the countertop. Rumple had never been fond of Archie or the services he provided, always calling him the Cricket and always in the same, degrading tone as he had just now. Was the man awake?

“Same annoying chirping. Less meaning behind it.” Weaver leaned closer still, sneering at her. “Pour.”

For the briefest of seconds Regina was almost certain she had seen Rumple somewhere just behind the cloak of Weaver, but the feeling lasted about as long as the detective's next drink. Rumplestiltskin would have dropped this part of Weaver like a hot potato. He hated alcohol and despised anyone who drank it excessively. The only person whose indulgences he had ever tolerated had been Belle, back when Regina had trapped her in the persona of Lacey.

 _Boy, did that plan backfire,_ she thought idly. Instead of splitting the couple up when she gave Belle her new cursed memories, Regina had actually drawn the couple together. Fast and hard. Which was how she suspected they did just about everything, based off of their behavior in the streets after leaving the Rabbit Hole every night. It was almost a shame Weaver and Lacey weren't able to share this curse together. The two were made for each other. 

Roni watched as the detective stewed in his seat. If it were possible to pour hatred into a glass by a stare alone, Weaver was accomplishing it as easily as breathing. The sight had Regina questioning her assessment. Was _he_ the one drinking, or was it Rumple? Weaver often came in after a day on the job and some of his nights were spent with an intense desire to wash away the day similar to this one, but Rumple... he would hate having to keep up this part of his cursed personality. Having to keep up the charade by swallowing even one drop of whiskey would torment him to his very core. Hell, he'd probably see it as following in his father's footsteps. 

Since the man had slowed his consumption, Regina took a moment to tidy up behind the bar, but she couldn't get her mind off of Rumple. As the Dark One, Rumplestiltskin had done some terrible things in his life, but with Belle and Gideon he had found peace and a path back to the man he had been before the darkness had taken control of him. She knew many villains that had changed, she was one of them, but none had been through as much torment and suffering as the man in front of her. He didn't deserve this.

For a moment she contemplated confronting him. He knew more about this curse than anyone, and he would easily empathize with her struggle to be with Henry and keep him safe, but what could she offer in return? Friendship? Since Belle's death he had practically cut himself off from everyone he had known, casting aside all previous ties in his quest to find the Guardian. Well, all except Alice, Hook, and Gideon. The boy would have been safely in another realm, lost in his studies, when the curse had taken his father, so Hook and Alice were all he had. Would he let an old friend in?

Weaver looked up and gestured her over. “Another,” he barked, his voice wavering either because of what he had consumed or what was consuming him.

Providing yet another refill, Regina tilted her head to the side, tossing out a casual remark that she hoped would hint at her state of awareness. “Careful... Detective... You wouldn't want to hate yourself later...”

The man only huffed and took another swallow, then pointed at the bottle. “Leave it.”

“You're the one paying the bill at the end of the night,” she told him as Roni and set the whiskey down within his reach. 

Weaver waved her off and helped himself to the contents, nearly overflowing his glass.

From where Regina stood, she could see Henry just beyond Weaver's shoulder. The two had the same slump of defeat and stared down at their liquid relief in the same mopey yet intense way. “Like grandfather, like grandson,” she breathed as she wandered off. Though her words had been barely a whisper, she could have sworn that she saw Weaver glance cautiously behind him, one corner of his mouth twitching as it fought a reaction. 

That sealed it. Rumple was awake. He had to be. 

Without warning, Regina's mind drifted back to her time at Tiana's court and her brief reunion with Facilier. Initially the sudden shift in thought startled her, but watching Weaver caress the rim of his glass the way he would a lover's hand, she realized the connection. Rumple was as desperate to find Belle as she had been to resurrect Daniel all those years ago when she had first met the Witch Doctor.

 _Damn it, he's getting a friend whether he wants one or not,_ she decided as she tossed her cleaning rag into the sink with all the force of her determination. The way the night was going, Rumplestiltskin would still be here when she closed down. She would lock him in if she had to, but she wasn't going to let him suffer alone.

* *

A night in the bayou was nothing like a night in the woods. Back home, even on a moonless evening, the stars danced on the water and the fireflies blinked in reply, reflecting their combined light skyward to emit the faintest of glows. In this new realm, the thick trees blocked out any light from above, thrusting everything into a darkness so complete that it almost penetrated the tree trunks and painted a black wall around any person who was trying to make out an object in the distance. It was an all encompassing experience that consumed each of the senses in its own way, making everything attune sharply to the world one was standing in. Insects chirped louder, the scents of the forest filled the nostrils, and every breath of wind could be felt on the skin. 

Darkness wasn't a problem for Faclier. He spoke to the shadows, danced with them, manipulated them, coaxed them into making allowances for him and no other. This place, though strange in some ways, was made a comfort by the darkness and he was glad to have stumbled upon it. He'd had help, of course. Travel between realms was not within his abilities, but a chance meeting with a happy traveler had given him all the opportunity he needed. 

Facilier had, quite literally, bumped into the Hatter one afternoon as he strolled through the streets near his home. The incident had been complete happenstance, as the Hatter turned a corner and slammed into the Witch Doctor with full force. Initially annoyed, Facilier had instantly calmed when the whispers of the spirits drifted past him, hinting at a magical quality to the Hatter. The master of Voodoo listened intently, then, on the advice of his shadowy friends, had bumped up his charm to learn more. 

Giving many apologies, the foreigner introduced himself as Jefferson. The Hatter complemented Facilier on his look, with considerable emphasis on the love of his hat, and over the course of their conversation let slip that he was not just a traveler, but a man of many realms, each with their own unique form of magic. Traveling wasn't anything of importance to Facilier, but with new types of magic he could hold more power. The Voodoo and Hoodoo that his mother had taught him, though quite powerful, left him reliant on the shadows and required trinkets and baubles. As a descendant of magical royalty, Facilier believed that he deserved more and now he had the Hatter to supply it for him.

Tracking the man had been easy. Once the two had parted, Facilier cheerily wandered off, rounded the block, and returned to the street of their meeting. Giving up all other intentions, he followed in the Hatter's wake. Wherever Jefferson went, Facilier was close behind, though never seen. After days of waiting and watching, his diligent surveillance paid off. The Hatter had wandered out of town, thrown his hat on the ground and jumped. With no hesitation, Facilier had followed. 

Avoiding notice had been easy, thanks to his fondness for shadow and secrecy, invisibility was nothing but a complicated con, after all, and since that first journey, he had been to several realms with the Hatter, who had never once noticed his new companion. Some of the magical locations had held potential, but none had felt as full of magic as the realm he was in now. Here the whispers felt louder and the air seemed charged with an energy that begged to be harnessed.

What had drawn Facilier to this exact location of this enchanted forest wasn't the Hatter, however. He had been guided to this clearing by the whispers of the night. They knew what he couldn't and they saw what was too distant for him to make out. They were the ones who had noticed the tent and what was going on around it.

Beside the Hatter stood a rigid man in bland, militaristic clothing, and a beautiful young woman whose face was awash with sorrow and confusion. Facilier's eyes drifted quickly from the unusual trio to the body resting inside the hastily constructed tent before them. He could hear the spirit who owned it whispering pleas to the woman who heard nothing.

_Don't do this, Regina... let me go..._

Facilier stood, mesmerized as the woman lifted her arms, contorted her face into deep concentration, and silently called up a localized storm, all wind and lightning, with no rain to bother them. A sorceress then, one in training, but one that held much promise. Memories of his mother's lessons floated before his eyes and he compared her teachings to what he had just seen, even as he watched the others move about the tent, preparing for whatever was to come. It had been a simple enough spell, but something about the way she had chosen to cast it told him she had learned from a true master, just as he had.

He stood too far away to hear the conversation between the men and the woman called Regina, but it wasn't hard to work out what the plan would be. Somehow, using a form of magic unfamiliar to him, the elements would combine with whatever items the stern gentleman had hidden behind the white canopy and the body on the table would be... Reborn? He assumed this was the plan, but thought what would happen was more of a reanimation than an actual return. No one could survive death and be the same as their loved ones hoped they would be. Once the spirit was gone, it traveled to its own realm, a place more wondrous and magical than any he had ever seen and reuniting it with the shell it had vacated was simply beyond the possibility of any realm he had glimpsed or visited, even the realm of the dead.

Flashes of lightning danced above and the wind whipped at the sides of the tent as the storm gained strength and the shadow of the stiff gentleman moved along the fabric, manipulating objects that couldn't be seen. He emerged only after a bolt of lighting struck, a sadness on his face that refused to reach his eyes.

Facilier hummed to himself. The plan _appeared_ to be a failure, but the Shadow Man could see through the facade without much effort. This mishap had been the expectation all along and the woman had fallen for it with the ease of a naive princess. Quietly she left the others and crept into the tent, where she remained until the men disturbed her. He watched as the Hatter led her away, then left her to help pack the temporary shelter and its contents, working around the inanimate shell of the man whose voice was heard by the witch doctor alone.

_It's a lie, Regina... but the man I would be... is no one you could love._

When everything but the body had been removed, the Hatter returned to speak with Regina, who shook her head and waved him off, calming the storm with the same gesture. Within minutes she was standing alone, with only the body of her beloved to keep her company. Carefully she ran a hand over him and Facilier watched a faint shift of magic shimmer in the darkness and chose that moment to step forward, carefully snapping a twig as he moved.

“Vincent?” The woman's eyes darted around, seeking out a point of reference in the darkness. “Jefferson? Is that you?” When no answer came, her arm shifted in preparation for a casting of transportation.

Quickly Facilier stepped into the clearing's dim light, hands held up in a gesture of surrender. “My apologies, my Lady,” he said calmly, charm oozing from every word. “I was only out for a stroll, I didn't mean to stumble upon your memorial...”

Regina looked down at the body in front of her. “Not a memorial,” she told him, “a broken dream.”

Facilier made a move back to the shadows. “I don't mean to interrupt,” he told her softly. “I can leave you to-”

“Who are you?” The question came just as he had hoped it would and he smiled broadly.

“Doctor Facilier,” he told her, removing his hat with a flourish and giving her a graceful bow. “And, if I might ask... You are...?”

“Regina.”

“Regina,” he repeated, caressing the name with his tongue. “A beautiful name. But what has brought you to this place with so much sadness? And what, pray tell, has befallen your... friend?”

Somewhere in the darkness the spirit warned him to leave the woman, but Facilier ignored it. What could a spirit do but threaten? This man had no power over him.

“Daniel.” She swallowed the name as a tear fell down her cheek, following the path of one that had come before. “He was my fiance. My mother... crushed his heart...”

A flash of the spirit's memory came before the Witch Doctor's eyes, an angry queen thrusting her hand into the chest of the departed, pulling out a glowing heart and turning it to dust in her hand. True power indeed. If Regina came from such power, she could certainly wield as much, if not more, for herself some day.

“Using magic against her own daughter.” Facilier tisked softly. “My mother used magic, but never against me. My dear, I can not begin to understand what you must be going through.”

Regina sighed, her gaze drifting from the ground to Daniel's body. “I just want him back,” she rasped, her throat strained from crying. “All I want is his love again.”

“Oh, but he still loves you,” Facilier told her, gesturing at the form in front of them. “He has said so himself.”

The woman's eyes went wide in surprise but Facilier held in his pleasure at the expected reaction. “How do you know that?” The question held a wavering authority that would some day become something bigger and unquestionable, given time to grow.

Facilier tipped his head to the side in a gesture of humility. “I have a kind of magic of my own,” he told her. “My mother taught me as her mother taught her. It is a tradition passed down through her line for generations. I am only the final link in the chain.”

“What sort of magic?” Regina looked up at him with curiosity. “Can _you_ bring him back to me?”

Facilier shook his head. “No, no. I'm afraid no one can do that, but I _can_ hear him. When someone dies, their body may not live on, but their spirit remains able to speak, if the right person is available to hear the words.”

“And you're that person.” It was a statement, a certainty filled with determination and a fire that sparked a flicker of something in the Witch Doctor's heart, causing it to twitch with curiosity.

Making a show of his abilities, Facilier stepped up to the body and moved his hands in a careful but meaningless gesture, then closed his eyes and pretended to focus his mind by scrunching his face into a contortion of concentration. “He says he loves you, but this is not what he wants for you. He wishes you to move on. He believes you will find happiness again, if you keep love in your heart.” The words were not an exact translation, but they were the truth of the spirit's feelings.

Regina's chin quivered and her shoulders drooped. “But.... We could have been together...”

Facilier sighed and stepped over to her, guiding her to a fallen log so that they could both sit. “Whatever magic you had hoped would bring him back would only have turned him into a monster,” he said softly, honestly, taking her hand and patting it gently to provide her with support. “The body would move, the lips might speak, but the Daniel you knew could never be the man this magic would have him become.”

The words drifted between them, spoken from the part of his heart that held love for the heartbroken. It wasn't often that he did such a thing, but this seemed to be one of those times that he simply couldn't help himself. Regina needed the honesty more than she needed to learn first hand what her actions would have brought into the world and if he were honest with himself, Facilier wasn't at all sure that even he wanted to see the outcome of what insanity she and the others had been attempting. He knew more than most the dangers of dancing with the spirits who existed just beyond reach.

“He wants you to let him go,” Facilier reminded her gently.

Regina stood, the fire returning to her eyes. “I can't do that,” she said. “I won't.”

“Then at least abandon this hope of bringing him back to you. It will only bring you pain.” Facilier insisted, his voice soft and genuinely kind. He had already chosen his next words, ready to weave a net around Regina and hold her where he wanted her. “There are many magical ways to release yourself from this sadness... Or to right the wrongs done.”

The woman tilted her head curiously. “Such as?”

Facilier pretended to contemplate his answer, his expression debating the necessity of sharing his knowledge with someone he had only just met. He waited until she seemed ready to press him again before whispering, “Revenge.”

“Revenge.” Her tone was flat and dry, disbelieving.

“The past is what you are fighting,” he told her certainly. “You had Daniel in the past and you will not have him in the same way again. This anger and hurt that you feel for what was done can be turned into great power. You can _use_ it going forward to manipulate your future and the futures of those who are responsible for Daniel's fate.”

This seemed to spark something within Regina, whose eyes shifted from sadness to a kind of knowing. Whatever part of her history she was reliving, the words had struck it at the heart. 

Facilier continued, holding in his eagerness and gently prodding at her weakest point. “ _You_ are suffering and those who are guilty of poor Daniel's death are continuing with their happy lives, living and breathing while the man you love will do neither again.” He paused to let those words sink in. “It is the guilty who should suffer,” he insisted, “not the innocent.”

At this the woman's eyes turned cold and he could almost see the roots of a plan taking form within her. “Nothing is innocent,” she whispered as if lost in a memory. 

“True,” Facilier agreed kindly. “I have forms of magic that were designed for pain and torments. One prick of a pin and we could reach the guilty from anywhere within this realm.”

“I think I have my own way,” Regina told him, straightening and raising a hand to whisk the body back to wherever she had been keeping it. “The man teaching me asked me to find what I wanted from magic.” She turned to face Facilier again and lowered her head in a regal way that informed him all at once of her upbringing, her voice suddenly as cold as a winter wind. “And thanks to you, I believe I have found it.”

Facilier returned the gesture, removing his hat as his head lowered. “A lucky person, indeed, to have you for a student.” He nodded as if in thought, pondering how to best mine the final bits of information out of her that he needed. If he tapped the vein just enough he would reveal the answers. “I see a strength in you that will take you far. I hope your skills don't exceed your teacher's abilities.”

Regina laughed at this, it was a meaningless sound, without feeling behind it, but it helped her to reveal what the Witch Doctor was hoping to find. “I doubt anyone could exceed the Dark One's abilities,” she told him frankly, eager to boast of her faith in the man who was sharing his knowledge with her. “Rumplestiltskin is the most powerful man in the realm.”

 _Rumplestiltskin,_ Facilier committed the name to memory in thought alone, knowing that someone with as much power as Regina claimed would certainly be aware if anyone so much as whispered his name to the wind. “Well then,” he told her with a kiss to her hand. “I expect that when we next meet we will have much to catch up on.”

He bid her farewell under the guise of needing to finish his walk and return to bed, then strolled casually beneath the branches in the direction he had come. If the most powerful man in the realm was Regina's teacher, perhaps he should keep an eye on her for a time. Power was useful and one could never have too much of it. Whatever had given this Dark One such magic, Facilier wanted to learn its secret and claim it as his own. 

* *

Facilier had been watching Nick since the poor, cursed soul passed his bar exam. Granted, the young lawyer had been given considerable help and motivation through magical means, but thanks to the Witch Doctor, the man was now practicing law with a small firm and having some actual success. Until today, all of the cases had been petty disputes or resolved themselves outside of the court room, but the one that just concluded was significant enough that it actually made the local papers back in Washington. A small boy, abused by his mother, was allowed to live with his adoring father thanks to the efforts of Nick and one of the major partners in the firm. The victory had earned a total of ten sentences in the day's criminal rundown, though only as a mention of the fact that the mother would be sent to jail for her actions. Still, it was the victory that Facilier had needed to make his next move.

Keeping track of the news from two and a half thousand miles away hadn't been easy, but leaving Hyperion Heights had been a necessity. This realm was often referred to as a “world without magic” but was, in fact, capable of producing small amounts of it if one knew where to look. Having put in much research, Facilier discovered New Orleans and the culture there that mimicked his own almost too precisely to be a coincidence. Here he had made himself a temporary residence under the guise of investing in the architectural rebirth of the weather beaten areas that no one else seemed to care for. 

“Samdi Holdings is looking to expand into other parts of the country. Places that may be in need of a little financial uplifting to improve the local environment,” he told everyone he spoke to. “I'm here to investigate my options.”

In truth, he was inspecting buildings, residents, and the surrounding area for any signs of true magic, and whatever he found, he quickly appropriated. Aside from the land he acquired because of its mildly powerful location, talismans, oils, powders, cloth, string, cards of fortune, and as many candles as shop owners were willing to part with, all ended up in the cheerful entrepreneur's hands by the end of the day. If asked, he gave his best winning smile and claimed to be a collector or to have friends and family at home who asked for souvenirs.

Thankfully Nick's big victory had come on the heels of Facilier's final purchase of an old home built on a piece of land where he could hear the shadows strongest. He now had all of the objects required to work his magic on the young man and though he worried some about the distance between them, he knew that he could resort to more “modern” ways to achieve his goals if need be.

Focusing his mind, Facilier anointed the small candle beside him, already carved and dusted with his own special concoction of powders. Around this he wrapped the small printed image of Nick from the article and began to state his intentions. Finally, he lit the wick, picked up his phone, and dialed.

It took several rings before anyone answered and the voice on the other end sounded either groggy or muddled from celebratory drinking that undoubtedly had occurred the night before. “Hello...”

“Yes,” Facilier smiled broadly though Nick wouldn't see it. “Is this Nick Branson? _The_ Nick Branson who just won that horrible abuse case yesterday?”

There was a shuffling on the other end, probably made by the man getting out of bed. “Um...” He cleared his voice. “Yes... Yes, it is.”

“This is Mister Baron Samdi,” Facilier said cheerfully. “I've been following your case and I have to say I am very impressed. I have a _small_ business in Seattle and I have been looking for a lawyer such as yourself to assist me.”

“Well, I don't really-”

Facilier wasn't going to let him argue. He poured on the charm. “I can offer you much more than you'd be making elsewhere,” he promised. “All you have to do is name your price.”

“I appreciate that,” Nick said, sounding genuinely grateful. “It's just that... I do family law, mostly. I don't know that I would really be the best fit for what a business owner like yourself could need.”

“Ah. Well, I had to give it the old college try, hm?” Facilier laughed a hearty, self deprecating laugh that didn't at all match his memory of falsifying the man's test scores. “Can't blame me for trying. You, my boy, have some very serious potential.” He paused to add some suspense and glanced briefly at the almost extinguished candle. “Though... If you will accept some advice... you _are_ hard to find. You should think about advertising.”

A mildly amused chuckle escaped the man on the other end of the phone, a noise that sounded sullied with uncertainty. “I'm with a firm right now,” he told Samdi. “They're the ones who arrange advertising and sponsorship. If you're trying to offer up space on your building, you would have to contact them.”

“I see,” Facilier said with a sigh. “Well, do think about my original offer, Mister Branson. And at least think about updating your social media profiles. You are a very difficult man to track down. That's not very good for business... Take it from someone who knows.”

“Oh, I don't really use it much,” Nick confessed.

Facilier tisked. “Shame. It's free advertising, after all.”

“Who did you say you were again?” The charade was beginning to wear on the man, Facilier could tell.

“Mister Samdi of Samdi Holdings,” he answered cheerily. “And I do apologize for taking up your time. Keep my proposition in mind, won't you? Good morning.” 

Hanging up the phone, Facilier reached for the computer and flipped from the article to Nick Branson's social media page. The latest post was, indeed several months previous; a photograph of several men in a bar, each raising a glass of beer in celebration of some unmentioned event. The man hadn't even posted it himself, but been tagged by someone else, presumably one of the others in the image.

“Oh, Hansel,” Samdi muttered, glancing over at candle's remains. “You may be lost now, but don't you worry... Mister Samdi will make certain that you find your way back to your great quest for revenge...” Carefully interpreting the drips, he managed to work out Nick's email and password, then clicked the profile page and added the date he became a lawyer. When the work was done, the Witch Doctor sat back and smiled to himself. It hadn't been his first choice, but considering the curse's rearrangement of Lucy's parentage, it was the next best thing. Soon enough Jacinda would be needing a lawyer and Facilier wanted her hunt to end with the one man who could hunt his witches for him.


	7. Chapter 7

Rogers burned with a fire that an entire ocean couldn't extinguish. Lies. He and his partner were supposed to be a team, working together, and the whole time Weaver had been working against him. He had always known of the man's dark reputation, but manipulating an innocent like Tilly against him? That crossed the line.

The detective glared down at Ivy as she sputtered nonsense about her ignorance in the setup of company's security systems. The flustered woman carried on as she flipped through page after page of some spiral-bound handbook, occasionally pausing in her ramblings to scan over a few highlighted items. She kept insisting he should have someone from the tech department help him, but he refused her every time. She was going to give him what he wanted and she was going to do it now.

Resigned to her task, the woman finally clicked a few icons on the screen, rechecked the manual, then clicked again, opening several windows with lists of files. Finally she stood from the desk with a look of surprise. “Ah! Here you are. This is the log of the car's movements... I think...”

Rogers gave a sharp nod and took her place in the chair, studying the screen closely. Ivy had, indeed, located the car's GPS tracker and his eyes caught the most current location. Pulling out his small notepad and dropping it to the desk, he quickly jotted down the last known address. The car wasn't moving, and in a location like that, he was willing to wager Eloise Gardner was somewhere nearby.

“Excellent,” he grumbled as he tucked the pad back into his pocket. “You've been most helpful considering...” Rogers indicated the screen, originally intending to point out the evidence of her bumbling, yet resourceful work, but something under the GPS window caught his eye. He reached for the computer's mouse and manipulated the window so he could better see the folder underneath, then poked a finger at at the screen. “Is this security footage?” 

Ivy leaned forward to peer at the folder, head tilted to the side as she examined it. “It could be...” She indicated the mouse and asked, “May I?” When he nodded she moved the pointer to one of the randomly numbered files and clicked it open. Within seconds an image of Belfry appeared. It was hardly condemning footage, only her entrance into an elevator, but it was proof enough of the folder's contents.

“I'm going to have to call someone to collect those files,” Rogers told Ivy as he stood up. “Until then, you need to come with me.”

“But I haven't done anything,” the woman whined.

Rogers shook his head. “I can't have you up here alone in a position to tamper with evidence. We're going down to the main desk and you'll wait with the security guard. All right?”

Ivy put a hand to her chest, relief plain on her face. She nodded. “Thank you. I'll do anything to help. I just can't imagine my mother would get caught up in something like this.”

“Oh, I think you know more about your mother's activities than you're letting on,” he grumbled, stepping forward to stare down into her eyes. The woman looked terrified, but there was also a sharpness in the depths that suggested that her fear fell far out of place from what she was choosing to display.

_You don't know what's going on around here..._ Weaver's voice echoed in his mind. For an instant, Rogers was certain he had a memory of Ivy in a long, period gown, that same, unusual sharpness in her eyes as she stared back at him in a storm. 

He shook his head to clear it, wondering if the strange image was a message from his subconscious, warning him against whatever was hidden behind Ivy's gaze. Everyone at the precinct teased him for it, but he always prided himself on his ability to spot the lie behind the truth in a woman's eyes. She was guilty, he told himself. Maybe not guilty of the abduction, but there was something she knew and wasn't telling him. For a fleeting moment he allowed the notion that the entire file searching fiasco was for his benefit alone.

“Come on,” Rogers barked, as angry at the absurdity of the vision as he was at his partner. He stepped aside and gestured to the elevator, making certain Ivy entered first and pushing the button for the lobby himself. The two rode down in silence until the doors opened and he gently took Ivy's arm, guiding her to the front desk. “This young woman needs to remain here,” he told the building's night watchman. “Under no circumstances is she to leave your sight.”

The guard nodded solemnly.

“I'm calling for backup,” Rogers continued as he headed out the door. “And no one is to go upstairs or leave this building. You can release her to the officers who report here. They'll explain everything.” He didn't wait for an answer. Eloise was within his grasp and this time he would be there when she needed him most.

* * * 

Alice hummed to herself as she swept the outer steps of her small home in the woods, completely unaware that she was being watched. The sun shone down from above, highlighting everything about her that was absolute perfection, making Robin pause in her approach. The woman's hair practically sparkled, her muscles flexed as she moved the broom, and her smile was as bright as ever. The combination amazed Robin. She could not decide how she became so lucky to know this bright soul, let alone have the chance to share love with her.

Hook gently cleared his throat, making Robin jump. “Here's the letter,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

Robin looked down at it to try and hide the blush she felt on her face. “Thanks.” She gave a sheepish grin, then apologized. “Sorry, I don't mean to stare at her, it's just...”

“Oh, I understand love,” he told her with a smile. “I had it once myself. Not _so_ long ago that it confounds me in my old age.”

At this Robin laughed. “It can't be easy,” she told him sadly. “Standing here while I have my visit and deliver your letter.”

“Are you trying to be rid of me?” Hook's eyebrow raised. “Why Robin, If I didn't know any better, I'd say you had unwholesome intentions toward my daughter...”

Robin's hands shot up between them. “No, no. I didn't mean-”

“Relax, love,” Hook told her. “I'm glad she's found someone to hold on to _and_ I'm glad that someone is you. But you might want to make your delivery before I change my mind.”

She smiled at him, recognizing the tease for what it was and hurried through the clearing toward her love, wrapping her in a tight embrace and sharing a quick kiss, which Alice tried to deepen. “Um... Your father's out there,” Robin whispered, pulling away only enough to allow the words to escape.

“Oh!” Alice stood on her toes and peered out to the trees as if doing this would make it possible to spot him through the forest. “Hi Papa!” She waved vigorously in the wrong direction, keeping one arm around Robin until she turned to the house. “How is he?” she asked as they walked inside.

“Well, he misses you.” Robin stated the obvious as she held the door, glancing around at her feet for something to prop it open with.

Alice tipped her head. “What are you looking for?”

“Well, I don't want to shut it,” Robin insisted. “It would give him the wrong idea.”

“The idea that we want to keep out a draft?” Alice giggled. 

Robin rolled her eyes. “No, silly. I mean here I am, alone with you... I don't want him to think you and I are doing something we shouldn't. I'm more honorable than that.”

“And he knows it,” Alice told her, stepping forward to caress her cheek. “Otherwise he wouldn't have come with you.” In a heartbeat she was back out on the porch, calling out into the afternoon. “Robin and I are just going to have lunch now! Real lunch! With _food._ ” She turned back to Robin, beaming. “Better?”

“Sure,” Robin said, feeling the color rise in her face again. “That's not suspicious at all.”

Ignoring Robin's protests, Alice reentered the house and shut the door behind her, gesturing at the table. “Food's almost ready,” she said happily. “I made stew.” She stopped abruptly and stared at the pot. “Oh, but it might be too hot for it. If it is, I can make something else.”

Robin reached out to take the woman's hand, rubbing her thumb in circles over Alice's skin. “Stew is fine,” she told her in soft tones. “Anything you make is perfect. Even if you make ice cream in the middle of winter.”

“Ice cream?” Alice closed her eyes for a minute, then popped them open suddenly as she recalled their previous conversations. “That's frozen milk, right? With sugar.”

“Sort of,” Robin nodded. “In the winter, I'll have to make you snow cream. That can come pretty close, I think. It'll give you the idea, anyway.”

Alice ran her fingers through Robin's hair. “I can't wait until all of this nonsense is over and we have time to visit other realms. I'd love to take you to some of the places I've been.”

“And I'd love to show you my old home,” Robin told her as she pulled Alice down into her lap. “There are so many things I think you would love there.”

“I already know I love one thing there,” Alice told her with a smile.

“What's that?”

Alice leaned forward to kiss her. “You.”

* * *

Hook paced between the trees as the shadows crept along the ground. Robin had agreed to meet him in the usual place after an hour, and, thanks to Rumplestiltskin, he was already late. Yet Robin was nowhere to be seen. His ears strained to catch any sound that might reach through the woods to reveal his daughter's activities and he chastised himself for his sudden inability to give her privacy. 

“You _just_ told the woman you trusted her, you old fool,” he muttered to himself as he turned his back on the house and paced away again.

“Sorry!” The shout from behind made him spin around with relief. “I was trying to tell Alice how to make ice cream. Time got away from us.”

“Iced cream and cold tea” Hook rolled his eyes skyward. “Is it so hot in your realm that _everything_ is meant to lower someone's temperature?”

Robin laughed. “I never really thought about it before, but I guess once refrigerators were invented-”

Hook raised his hand. “Never mind,” he said with a smile. “I'm sure some day everything you say will make sense to me.” He gestured at the path ahead, indicating his readiness to leave. “After you, love.”

Robin stepped forward and he matched her pace to walk at her side. The two began their journey in companionable silence, which gave Hook's mind the chance to sail through his hour with Rumplestiltskin and reflect on their conversations about children and love. 

The Dark One had received a letter from his son, which had put him in a fine mood for chatter. He spent their visit sharing both his pride in the boy's studies and in his worries over the possibility that he may never see Gideon settled down with someone the way he had with Belle. He had talked about the boy's tender heart and kind nature, but also about his previous life. 

Hook had trouble imagining the horrors someone would have to go through to have been turned from such a gentle soul into a servant of darkness in the way that the Black Fairy had altered her grandson. The story was almost too unbelievable, something so far out of reach that Hook could barely wrap his thoughts around it. He glanced back the way they had come, comparing Gideon's life to that of Alice. At least Rumple's boy had been spared the memories of his torments. Alice had not been so lucky. She put on an almost perfect front of pure joy and excitement, but he had always seen the flicker of sadness deep within her eyes.

The eyes give everything away, he knew. One only needed to know exactly how to read them. There were days that he caught himself wishing he had read Gothel's eyes better on that fateful night, that he hadn't been so caught up in his own pleasures to notice she had some hidden motive behind her ravenous affections. Then he remembered Alice's smile and knew that his ignorance had been a blessing in disguise. He may have been used and Alice may have suffered loneliness as a result, but he refused to imagine a day that didn't see her smiling out into the world.

“Penny?”

Hook looked up at Robin with a start. “Pardon?”

She gave him a smile. “For your thoughts.”

“Ah...” Hook pondered which thought he should share, but had difficulty pulling only one from the ever-expanding bag that held them.

Suddenly, Robin stopped in her tracks, causing Hook to turn and face her. “Look,” she said with a sigh. “I don't know if it's what you're worried about, but I just feel that I should tell you that I would _never_ do anything to Alice that-”

Hook felt his eyes widen with shock and he shook his head violently. “No. Oh no, no, Robin... My silence doesn't stem from concern over your relationship with my daughter.” He gave her a warm smile and stepped close, grasping her arm in a firm but fatherly gesture. “I told you when we arrived that I trusted you, and I do.”

“Good,” she breathed with relief. “Because having your girlfriend's father escort you to her house is awkward enough without adding the 'what does he think we do in there' question to it.”

He dropped his hand and frowned. “I'm sorry. I honestly had no intention of making you feel uneasy. If you prefer that I visit the Dark One on my own, rather than travel with you until Alice's home-”

“No,” Robin cut in quickly. “I don't mind the company along the path and it isn't as if you hover around outside the cottage, waiting to hear the slightest sound of-”

The words stopped suddenly. Hook blinked, then realized he was remembering his pacing only moments before and assumed that his expression must have changed as a result. He tried to school his face into something resembling amusement, but saw immediately that he had failed.

“Oh god,” Robin wilted, suddenly looking as if she could drop to the ground. “You _were_ waiting to hear if something was going on between us...” 

Hook blinked. “What? No.” Again he reached out to Robin, this time guiding her to a nearby log so that they could both sit. “Robin, I have every faith that you are treating my Starfish exactly as I would want her to be treated. In fact, there is no one that I could trust _more_. You are brave and kind, you have strength in all the areas that she needs it most, and you lift her up as she lifts you. I could sail for a hundred years searching for a girl like you that I trusted to court Alice and would never find another. Please don't read my uncertainty as a father as disbelief in you.”

Robin blinked at him in concern. “But... You are a wonderful father... She adores you.”

“A wonderful father doesn't abandon his daughter,” Hook huffed.

“Alice told me everything. You didn't have a choice,” Robin insisted.

“I'm a different man than Alice remembers,” he admitted, lowering his gaze. He caught sight of a beetle making its way along the dead leaves at their feet and followed its movement as he spoke. “I trusted the lies of one woman before Alice was born, lies that lead me back to the dark path I had been on before Alice came into my life. I became a drunk and a coward when we were separated. Once we were forced apart I swore I would never allow someone to manipulate either of us again.”

He turned back to Robin, smiling warmly. “That is how I know how true your intentions are with Alice. I can see your feelings for her in your eyes whenever you talk about your time together. Someone needs only to mention her name and that spark is there.” He pointed at her face as she involuntarily smiled. “You see?”

Robin blushed, but didn't look away from him. “I do love her,” she admitted. “It's still new and I couldn't say what the future holds, but what I feel... I believe it could last a long time. I think she does too.”

Hook nodded and stood, offering his hand to help Robin to her feet. “Then you have my acceptance,” he offered, wagging a finger at her playfully. “So no more of the awkward conversations between the camp and her home. I have not ever suspected that you would violate her, since that seems to be what you are worried about right now, nor could I ever believe that you intended to.”

Robin stood taller and opened her mouth to protest, but Hook shook his head.

The pirate stood tall, putting on a formal air, though he couldn't contain his cheeky grin as he spoke. “I hereby give you permission to court my daughter with the understanding that you will continue to love and cherish her, either for the rest of your days _or_ until your paths divide by mutual understanding...” He paused to contemplate the words, then tilted his head forward conspiratorially. “Is that more what you were hunting for today?” 

Robin actually giggled at his whispered afterthought and nodded. “Yeah... I think that might be what's been under my skin today,” she admitted, then added in as formal a manner as he had presented, “I promise to treat her well.”

“Good,” Hook answered in a gruff voice. “Anyone treating her otherwise had better keep an ear to the ground because they will feel my wrath as certainty as there is salt in the sea.”

* * *

There were way more people in Roni's Bar than Tilly had expected. She hovered at the door as she adjusted to the small crowd, letting the ambiance of the place fill her, and found the corners of her mouth turning up into a smile. It wasn't at all the kind of place she expected a man like Weaver to enjoy. There was too much laughter in the air and a sense of togetherness surrounded her that didn't quite fit the detective's single-man-in-a-fight personality. The emotional warmth of the place was so comfortable that it was almost overwhelming.

“I'm sorry,” said a woman holding a tray of glasses. “But I have to ask you to come all the way inside. You're blocking the exit.”

Tilly jumped at the realization and immediately sidestepped to let some customers out. “Sorry,” she called cheerfully after them.

“Tilly?” 

The familiar voice made her spin in a slow circle until she saw Henry standing up across the room. Grateful for the familiar face, she moved to join him, her smile fading when she saw his unusually sad expression.

“Didn't expect to see you here,” the man said, though his cheerful tone was clearly a little forced. “Everything okay?”

She sighed and flashed a smile that she didn't quite feel. “Fine. Well, sort of.” The memory of the events from the park came back to her and she shook her head suddenly. “Actually, no,” she amended at the sight of the past. “I came here looking for Detective Weaver. I know he's usually here after work nights, I've met him outside sometimes to give him information. I have to know why he made me do it.”

Henry held up both hands in a gesture meant to slow her down. “Hang on. One thing at a time. Made you do what?”

Tilly's eyes narrowed in frustration, though she wished that they wouldn't. It wasn't a nice feeling being angry at the one man who had shown her any kindness in this life. “That part doesn't matter,” she huffed. She watched Henry's expression fill with curiosity, then shook her head violently. “No. I know what you're thinking. Everyone says he's a dirty cop, but he never once hurt _me._ He took care of me. Helped me out. Kept me fed...”

“There's a first time for everything,” Henry answered, offhandedly. He looked up and around, scanning the bar as he grumbled something about Weaver that Tilly assumed she was not meant to hear. “I know he was here. Roni was just complaining about him.” He nodded to the side and stepped from his small table. “Come on.”

Tilly followed him and the two waited patiently for the woman behind the counter to finish her transaction with a customer. “Henry, you're not having another one,” she said gruffly before looking up and blinking in surprise at Tilly. “Oh. Hello.”

“Roni, this is Tilly. She's looking for Weaver.”

“Well, he's right-” The bartender gestured at a seat occupied by a woman who was most certainly _not_ the detective in question. “Damn.” Her eyes darted from one part of the room to another in something akin to panic. “Where the hell did he get off to?”

“Probably somewhere that he can turn more friends against each other,” Tilly grumbled, leaning her arms on the bar and fiddling with the button on one of her cuffs just to have something to do. She was so tired of not knowing things. The last few days had been filled with uncertainty. From the moment she had gotten back on her medication things seemed to have gone all topsy turvy. The pills were supposed to _stop_ that from happening, yet every moment was going the exact opposite of the way it was supposed to.

Roni let out a long breath and reached out to pat her hand. “I _thought_ something had happened today,” she said knowingly. “What's that grumpy old monster done now?”

“Oh, just used me against my better judgment,” Tilly sighed, hanging her head from guilt. “I always thought I was doing the right thing when I helped him out, but now... I'm not so sure...”

“That good-for-nothing bastard,” Roni hissed. She gave Tilly's hand another squeeze, one intense enough to force her to look up and meet her eyes. “Weaver gets under the skin of even the best people,” she assured her, certainty in her tone. “Including the ones he cares about.”

Henry tipped his head in confusion, at this news, but Roni didn't let him say anything.

“What _you_ need to do,” Roni insisted, “is go and find whoever he turned you against. Make it up to _them_ and leave Weaver to _me_.”

Tilly shook her head. “No. I … I can't do that. Not now. I've let him down and I don't even know why. How am I supposed to explain myself when I can't even understand what I've done?”

Roni sighed and released her grip, but kept a reassuring smile on her face. “Well, I've certainly learned from my mistakes when it comes to separating Weaver from the people important to him...” She glanced over at a patron who was trying to get her attention and nodded, then turned back to Tilly. “You do what you think is best, but be careful. The Weaver that I saw in here tonight isn't going to be someone you recognize.”

* *

Gideon smiled the moment the sun's rays touched his face. It felt strange arriving in the clearing rather than the wooded area to the side of the house, but there was no longer any need to give warning before approaching. The knowledge pulled at his heart, making his chest twitch painfully. He could no longer catch his mother and father wrapped up together, lost in their private passions. His gaze turned to where his mother lay, surrounded by roses.

“Hello, Mother,” he said sadly. “How is Papa?”

He allowed a pause for an answer, though he knew none would come. It gave him time to imagine her smile and gather his own strength for the sorrows that he knew he would find just beyond the threshold of the family home. He desperately missed his mother, but he knew that he had to be strong for his father's sake. The day his father's letter found Gideon he had bolted from class without explanation, knowing his Papa would be lost without him. That stay had been too short for both of them, so he had appealed to the school and been given a short excuse from his studies to help out at home. In Gideon's realm it had only been a few days since his mother had died, but time ran differently here and he worried for his father's condition.

Now he listened to the distant sound of water and wiped a tear from his cheek as he squatted beside one of the bushes, inspecting it for growth and signs of neglect. It told him all that he needed to know. “I'll go talk to him for you.” 

Gideon stood and turned to face the house, taking a deep breath before closing the distance between his mother's grave and the living tomb that his father had created for himself. A glance in the window revealed that nothing inside the building had changed. The fine layer of dust on every surface marked which items had moved and which hadn't, few showing evidence of use. His father, seated in the same chair, at least appeared to have been up and around on occasion and Gideon wondered if he had finally begun going upstairs to bed.

With a sigh Gideon put on his bravest face and opened the door. “Papa. I came for my visit...” 

“Gideon...” the word was barely a whisper, raspy, as if coming from a throat unused to making sound.

Unable to contain his worry, Gideon hurried over and squatted down to meet his father's gaze. He gave the man a warm smile and squeezed his hand. “I'm here, Papa,” he managed with some cheer, for it _was_ good to be home and spend time with his father, no matter the reason. “Have you eaten?”

Rumplestiltskin chuckled sadly and reached out with his free hand to pat Gideon's shoulder. “My boy. Always thinking about food.”

“I'm still growing,” Gideon pouted playfully, trying to lift his father's spirits with the family's recurring tease. “Growing boys need food.” He stood and moved through the house to the kitchen area, frowning at the state of the space. “Papa... have you _ever_ eaten?”

“Something. Here and there,” he answered back without moving, not even giving the casual flick of a wrist, the lack of which made Gideon's head spin. Seeing his father so still was almost like looking at death itself. It was unnerving.

To distract himself, Gideon hefted the pump, struggling against the stiffness of it in his first attempt. “When?”

“I don't remember,” Rumple told him.

“Papa,” Gideon hissed as he finally got the water flowing. “You _have_ to take care of yourself. “

“Meh.” Finally his father's arm moved, waving him off as he stared into some unseen point of the past. “When I was in my cell I was fed worms and pig slop if the guards remembered to bring me a meal. My curse wouldn't let me starve to death.”

Gideon shook his head. “That isn't the point, Papa. I know Mother isn't here, but... can't you at least try to live on in some way... for me?” He hadn't meant to sound as desperate as the words implied, but the question did get his father moving.

With a look of horror on his face Rumple rushed to Gideon's side, reaching to grasp him tightly. “Oh my boy, of _course_. I would do _anything_ for you. You know that.” He paused to take in the room, scowling as if noticing his surroundings for the first time. “I'm sorry, son... It's just that here... The passage of time.... There's no way to tell one day from the next.”

Gideon wrapped his father in a hug, holding him tightly. “I know, Papa.” He noticed his father glance briefly out the window and smiled sadly. “Have you been to see her?”

Rumplestiltskin shook his head, his lips and eyes quivering with distress.

Gideon took his hand and squeezed it tightly. “Then we'll go together,” he insisted, unwilling to accept the idea's rejection. 

Against his father's protests, he pulled the man to the door, down the porch steps, and over to the grave. The two stood in a horrible silence, staring at the roses and bit of carved wood that had become the symbols of their mother and one true love. “Hello again, Mother,” Gideon said when he had reached the limit of their shared quiet. “I brought someone to see you.”

His father let out a puff of air. “I see her every day. How can I not?” His eyes moistened instantly at the words, the tears spilling over his cheeks and falling to the ground.

Gideon moved between his father and the grave. “She wanted to be where you could see her,” he said softly. “So that you would remember she was still with you.” He waited for several breaths for his father to regain himself, then made a suggestion that he hoped would change things. “We should go for a walk,” he said with certainty. “Mother will understand. We'll be back.” The last was spoken to the roses and again he pulled his father along, physically moving him in a single direction until the man's feet seemed to work on their own.

“I've added psychology to my studies,” Gideon said once they had reached the path leading through the woods. He waited until his father was moving on his own before he released the man's arm and strode on to one of the many overlooks that he and his parents had walked too.

“An unusual course of study for someone attending a school devoted to magic,” his father answered. There was no pulling the wool over his Papa's eyes. He assumed that the course change was strictly for him.

Gideon shook his head. “It wasn't just for you, Papa,” he said. “I'll need it for what I plan to do when I leave the academy, but... Well, there _are_ some things I've learned that can help you.”

Rumplestiltskin gave a huff of doubt. “Next thing you'll be telling me that Cricket is coming from Storybrooke. Well, I don't want to see him.”

“No, Papa... Nothing like that... It's just... I've seen papers written on grief. They say that talking to someone we've lost has helped release the pain and loneliness that make us feel trapped in our sorrows.” He paused as they reached one of the clearings, taking in the beauty of a world he wished he could have spent time in as a young boy. 

“Gone is gone,” Rumple told him gruffly as he stopped at his side. “There's no point in pretending she is here any more than there is expecting her to get up from the ground and walk back into the house.”

“You talked to my brother when you were living in the Dark Castle. Mother told me so. She heard you,” Gideon reminded him, hoping it would be the right thing to say.

“Your brother was alive,” his father barked back, though with little enthusiasm. “He could have heard me. I held hope for that.”

Gideon looked out at the distant waterfalls, then closed his eyes, fumbling around in the recesses of his mind for one of the many conversations he had planned to ease his father's suffering. Finally he settled on something that bent to the future. “Mother said she would wait for you. What do you think will happen once your curse is lifted?”

“I'll die.” The answer was too frank and cut Gideon like a knife.

Trying not to show his pain, the younger man continued as if his father hadn't spoken. “If she is meeting you somewhere she can't simply be gone.”

Rumple's lips trembled again and his face contorted with more pain. “I can't hold her, Gideon. I can't hear her babble about her latest favorite book or feel her touch. She was the _one_ spark of light in my life before you came, the speck of brightness that lifted the darkness from me. I don't know what I would be without her.”

“You'd be my father,” Gideon told him, trying not to sound hurt. “And the good man that you became since I was returned to both of you.”

Rumple turned to face him, his eyes pleading. “Oh, son... I didn't mean...”

“I know and I understand,” Gideon quickly insisted, allowing his father a moment to pull him close, squeezing the breath out of him in his determination to retract his unintended slight. 

Once he released his hold on Gideon, Rumple took in a long breath and gazed out into the distance. “You can't talk to your friends at the Academy from here,” he said plainly, gesturing at the horizon as if the school were only a shadow in the distance and not in another realm entirely. “You'd need a magic item, or the traveling paper, like we have.”

Gideon caught sight of an opportunity to make his point and snatched out at it. “The academy is in a realm with borders. _This_ is a realm with borders,” he reminded his father. “What if the realm Mother has traveled to doesn't _have_ any borders. What if she can be anywhere and everywhere whenever she wants?”

Rumplestiltskin raised a curious eyebrow, tipping his head with doubt. He wanted to protest, but Gideon refused to give him the chance. “If she could be anywhere, wouldn't she be with _you_? With _us_? Water needs a vessel to hold it, otherwise it spreads, seeps into the ground or drifts into the air to float around us. What if life for Mother is like that now? What if she is simply outside of her vessel? She'd be here. With us.” 

His father listened, but didn't respond, only paced a few steps one way, then another, before heading back to the house the way they had come. Gideon followed, silent and respectful, not wanting to push any farther. He knew that his father's silence meant he had accepted at least part of what they had discussed.

As the pair followed the path, Gideon paused at the entrance to the small vegetable garden. “I'm going to get some things for supper...”

There was a pause between them, his father's stride frozen as he contemplated his options. Finally he nodded and added absently, “Yes... All right... I'll just...” He indicated the path with his arm.

“All right.” Gideon smiled as he took a few steps toward the rows of plants, then ducked down as if searching for some ripe specimens. His eyes, in truth, followed his father's movements toward the house. 

Gideon went out of his way to search under every leaf and stem for vegetables ripe for eating, not because he cared to be tending the garden, but because he suspected his plan had worked and he wanted to give his father as much time as possible before making an attempt to sneak into the house. Only once every edible item had been found did Gideon stand and make his way around to the porch, smiling as he saw his father seated on the ground beside his mother. The man's shoulders were quivering slightly, but every now and then the unmistakable sound of his Papa's voice drifted through the air.

Slipping into the building, Gideon began the task of cooking their dinner, glancing through the window now and then to check that his father was still there. By the time the food was made, his father had walked in on his own, washed up, and was setting the table for the meal. He said nothing as they sat to eat, only reached for Gideon's hand and squeezed it tightly, the single motion conveying all the love and gratitude between them that refused to let go.

* *

The door to Weaver's apartment opened and the Detective stumbled inside, using the wooden frame to support him as he forced his feet into a position that might better hold him in one place. He waited for the room to stop spinning before moving again, somehow managing to both step forward and swing the door hard enough for it to shut on its own.

Luck, he decided. Pure luck. Couldn't do that again, if he tried.

Rumplestiltskin took in a long breath, trying to focus his senses enough to get him to the small table where he had begun his collection of things for Belle. Before moving, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the picture he had drawn of their sunset and held it awkwardly in front of his face, wishing his eyes would focus on it properly. They didn't _need_ to, of course, he remembered the image, remembered the actual view, but he didn't want to face Belle in his current, humiliating state.

“Oh, Sweetheart,” he said as he made his way to the table, talking first to the drawing, then to the collection itself. “I can't do this without you.” He set the paper among the other items, caressing the chipped piece of the cup and the soft petal of a rose as tears began to fill his eyes.

“I know where you are,” he said at last. “I know _exactly_ how to find you. The Guardian can't help me. Only _I_ know where you really are... and I'm gonna do that.” He paused to absorb the decision he had just solidified by speaking it aloud before committing himself to a timeline. “Tonight.”

He left the table and wandered uneasily to his bedroom where he pulled out a suitcase and began stuffing it with anything that he had handy. Packing while falling-down-drunk was probably not the best idea he had ever come to and proved to be quite the struggle. After managing to toss in only a few handfuls of random items of clothing, he dropped from the exertion, landing half on, half off his bed, sprawled across the suitcase, completely unaware of the frenzied knocking at his front door.


End file.
